m  MEMORIAJA 
Mary  J.   L.    Mc  Donald 


PAUL   FABER,   SURGEON 


8ALLANTYNE,  HANSON  AND  CO.,  EDINBURGH 
,  CHANDOS  STREET.  LONUUN 


frontispiece^ 


PAUL   FABER 

SURGEON 


By  GEORGE    MAC   DONALD,  LL.D. 

AUTHOR   OF    "annals   OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD," 
"  THE   SEABOARD    PARISH,"   ETC.    ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  ROUTLEDGE   &  SONS 

9,  LAFAYETTE   PLACE 


IN  MEMORIAM 

ft 


TO 

W.  C.  T. 

TUUM    EST. 

Clear- windowed  temple  of  the  God  of  grace, 
From  the  loud  wind  to  me  a  hiding-place  ! 
Thee  gird  broad  lands  with  genial  motions  rife, 
But  in  thee  dwells,  high-throned,  the  Life  of  life  ! 
Thy  test  no  stagnant  moat  half-filled  with  mud. 
But  living  waters  witnessing  in  flood  ! 
Thy  priestess,  beauty-clad,  and  gospel-shod, 
A  fellow  labourer  in  the  earth  with  God  ! 
Good  will  art  thou,  and  goodness  all  thy  arts — 
Doves  to  their  windows,  and  to  thee  fly  hearts ! 
Take  of  the  corn  in  thy  dear  shelter  grown. 
Which  else  the  storm  had  all  too  rudely  blown  ; 
When  to  a  higher  temple  thou  shalt  mount. 
Thy  earthly  gifts  in  heavenly  friends  shall  count ; 
Let  these  first-fruits  enter  thy  lofty  door. 
And  golden  lie  upon  thy  golden  floor. 


Porto  Find,  December,  1878. 


984406 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.    THE   LANE I 

II.    THE   minister's    DOOR 9 

III.    THE    MANOR    HOUSE l^ 

IV.    THE    RECTORY 23 

V.    THE   ROAD   TO   OWLKIRK .       ,       .       .  26 

VI.    THE   COTTAGE 3I 

VII.    THE   PULPIT 36 

Vin.    THE   MANOR   HOUSE   DINING-ROOM 46 

IX.    MR.    drake's   ARBOUR $1 

X.    THE   RECTORY   DRAWING-ROOM 58 

XL    THE   CHAMBER   AT   THE   COTTAGE 7I 

XIL    THE    minister's   GARDEN 76 

XIII.  THE   HEATH   AT    NESTLEY 8 1 

XIV.  THE   GARDEN    AT   OWLKIRK 92 

XV.    THE    PARLOUR   AT   OWLKIRK lOI 

XVI.    THE   butcher's   SHOP 1 14 

XVIL    THE    PARLOUR   AGAIN 122 

XVIII.    THE   PARK    AT    NESTLEY I40 

XIX.    THE    RECTORY I49 

XX.    AT   THE    PIANO 1 55 

XXI.    THE   pastor's   STUDY I63 

XXII.    TWO  MINDS 176 

XXIII.    THE    minister's    BEDROOM 183 

XXIV   Juliet's  chamber 194 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XXV.    OSTERFIELD    PARK 20$ 

XXVI.    THE  SURGERY   DOOR 215 

XXVII.    THE  GROANS   OF  THE   INARTICULATE       ....  224 

XXVIII.    COW-LANE  CHAPEL 238 

XXIX.    THE   doctor's    HOUSE 252 

XXX.    THE    PONY-CARRIAGE 261 

XXXI.    A   CONSCIENCE 279 

XXXII.    THE   OLD   HOUSE  AT  GLASTON 292 

XXXIII.  PAUL   FABER'S    DRESSING-ROOM 303 

XXXIV.  THE   BOTTOMLESS    POOL 3I9 

XXXV.    A   HE.\RT 325 

XXXVI.   TWO   MORE  MINDS 333 

XXXVII.    THE   doctor's   STUDY 346 

XXXVIII.    THE   MIND   OF  JULIET 356 

XXXIX.    ANOTHER    MIND 368 

XL.    A    DESOLATION 374 

XLI.    THE  OLD   GARDEN    ,      .      , 386 

XLII.    THE   POTTERY 397 

XLIII.    THE   GATE-LODGE 4IO 

XLIV.    THE  CORNER   OF  THE    BUTCHER'S   SHOP   ....  42 1 

XLV.    HERE   AND   THERE 427 

XLVI.    THE   minister's   STUDY 434 

XLVII.    THE   BLOWING   OF   THE    WIND 444 

XLVIII.    THE  BORDER  LAND 454 

XLIX.    EMPTY   HOUSES 463 

L.    FALLOW   FIELDS 473 

LI.    THE   NEW  OLD   HOUSE 487 

LII.    THE  LEVEL   OF   THE   L7THE 495 

LIII.    MY    lady's    CIIAMBLR 5OO 

LIV.    NOWHERE   AND   EVERYWHERE 5 II 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   LANE. 

'HE  rector  sat  on  the  box  of  his  carriage, 
driving  his  horses  towards  his  church,  the 
grand  old  abbey-church  of  Glaston.  His 
wife  was  inside,  and  an  old  woman — he  had 
stopped  on  the  road  to  take  her  up — sat  with 
her  basket  on  the  foot-board  behind.  His  coachman  sat 
beside  him :  he  never  took  the  reins  when  his  master 
was  there.  Mr.  Bevis  drove  like  a  gentleman,  in  an 
easy,  informal,  yet  thoroughly  business-like  way.  His 
horses  were  black — large,  well-bred,  and  well-fed,  but 
neither  young  nor  showy,  and  the  harness  was  just  the 
least  bit  shabby.  Indeed,  the  entire  turnout,  including 
his  own  hat  and  the  coachman's,  offered  the  beholder 
that  aspect  of  indifference  to  show,  which,  by  the  sug- 
gestion of  a  nodding  acquaintance  with  poverty,  gave  it 
the  right  clerical  air  of  being  not  of  this  world.  Mrs. 
Bevis  had  her  basket  on  the  seat  before  her,  containing, 
beneath  an  upper  stratum  of  flowers,  some  of  the  fust 
rhubarb  of  the  season  and  a  pound  or  two  of  fresh  butter 
for  a  poor  relation  in  the  town. 

The  rector  was  a  man  about  sixty,  with  keen  gray  eyes, 
a  good-humoured  mouth,  a  nose  whose  enlargement  had 
not  of  late  gone  in  the  direction  of  its  original  design,  and 


2  PAUL  FABER. 

a  face  more  than  inclining  to  the  rubicund,  suggestive 
of  good  living  as  well  as  open  air.  Altogether  he  had  the 
look  of  a  man  who  knew  what  he  was  about,  and  was  on 
tolerable  terms  with  himself,  and  on  still  better  with  his 
neighbour.  The  heart  under  his  ribs  was  larger  even  than 
indicated  by  the  benevolence  of  his  countenance  and  the 
humour  hovering  over  his  mouth.  Upon  the  counten- 
ance, of  his  wifu  rested  a  placidity  sinking  almost  into 
/fatuitjj..-'  Jts'fejitiires  were  rather  indications  than  comple- 
tions, but'  t1'lere■^\as  a  consciousness  of  comfort  about  the 
'],i>outh" iahd  \\\£~  eye's  were  alive. 

•"  'TKey-wcrepli's^rrg  at  a  good  speed  through  a  varying 
countiy — now  a  thicket  of  hazel,  now  great  patches  of 
furze  upon  open  common,  and  anon  well-kept  farm- 
hedges,  and  clumps  of  pine,  the  remnants  of  ancient 
forest,  when,  halfway  through  a  lane  so  narrow  that  the 
rector  felt  every  yard  towards  the  other  end  a  gain,  his 
horses  started,  threw  up  their  heads,  and  looked  for  a 
moment  wild  as  youth.  Just  in  front  of  them,  in  the 
air,  over  a  high  hedge,  scarce  touching  the  topmost  twigs 
with  his  hoofs,  appeared  a  great  red  horse.  Down  he 
came  into  the  road,  bringing  with  him  a  rathertall,  cer- 
tainly handsome,  and  even  at  first  sight,  attractive  rider. 
A  dark  brown  moustache  upon  a  somewhat  smooth  sun- 
burnt face,  and  a  stern  settling  of  the  strong  yet  delicately 
finished  features,  gave  him  a  military  look;  but  the  sparkle 
of  his  blue  eyes  contradicted  his  otherwise  cold  expres- 
sion. He  drew  up  close  to  the  hedge  to  make  room  for 
the  carriage,  but  as  he  neared  him  Mr.  Bevis  slackened  his 
speed,  and  during  the  following  talk  they  M'cre  moving 
gently  along  with  just  room  for  the  rider  to  keep  clear  of 
the  off  fore  wheel. 

"  Heigh,  Fabcr,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  you'll  break  your 
neck  some  day  !  You  should  think  of  your  patients,  man. 
That  v/asn't  a  jump  for  any  man  in  his  senses  to  take." 

"  It  is  but  fair  to  give  my  patients  a  chance  now  and 
then,"  returned  the  surgeon,  who  never  met  the  rector  but 
there  was  a  merry  passage  between  them. 


THE  LANE.  3 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  Mr.  Bevis,  "  when  you  came 
over  the  hedge  there,  I  took  you  for  Death  in  the 
Revelations,  that  had  tired  out  his  own  and  changed 
horses  with  t'other  one." 

As  he  spoke,  he  glanced  back  with  a  queer  look,  for  he 
found  himself  guilty  of  a  little  irreverence,  and  his  con- 
science sat  behind  him  in  the  person  of  his  wife.  But 
that  conscience  was  a  very  easy  one,  being  almost  as  in- 
capable of  seeing  a  joke  as  of  refusing  a  request. 

" — How  many  have  you  bagged  this  week?"  con- 
cluded the  rector. 

"  I  haven't  counted  up  yet,"  answered  the  surgeon. 
"  —  IWve  got  one  behind,  I  see,"  he  added,  signing  with 
his  whip  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Poor  old  thing  ! "  said  the  rector,  as  if  excusing 
himself,  "  she's  got  a  heavy  basket,  and  we  all  need  a  lift 
sometimes — eh,  doctor? — into  the  woild  and  out  again,  at 
all  events." 

There  was  more  of  the  reflective  in  this  utterance  than 
the  parson  was  in  the  habit  of  displaying  ;  but  he  liked  the 
doctor,  and,  although  as  w^ell  as  every  one  else  he  knew 
him  to  be  no  friend  to  the  church,  or  to  Christianity,  or 
even  to  religious  belief  of  any  sort,  his  liking,  coupled 
with  a  vague  sense  of  duty,  had  urged  him  to  this  most 
unassuming  attempt  to  cast  the  friendly  arm  of  faith 
around  the  unbeliever. 

"  I  plead  guilty  to  the  former,"  answered  Faber,  "  but 
somehow  I  have  never  practised  the  euthanasia.  The 
instincts  of  my  profession,  I  suppose,  are  against  it. 
Besides,  that  ought  to  be  your  business." 

"  Not  altogether,"  said  the  rector,  with  a  kindly  look 
from  his  box,  which,  however,  only  fell  on  the  top  of  the 
doctor's  hat. 

Faber  seemed  to  feel  th.e  influence  of  it  notwithstand- 
ing, for  lie  returned, 

"  If  all  clergymen  were  as  liberal  as  you,  Mr.  Bevis, 
there  would  be  more  danger  of  some  of  us  giving  in." 

The  word  liberal  seemed  to  rouse  the  rector  to  the  fact 


4  ■  PAUL  FABER. 

that  his  coachman  sat  on  the  box,  yet  another  conscience, 
beside  him.  Sub  divo  one  must  not  be  too  Hberal. 
There  was  a  freedom  that  came  out  better  over  a  bottle 
of  wine,  than  over  the  backs  of  horses.  With  a  word 
he  quickened  the  pace  of  his  cleric  steeds,  and  the 
doctor  was  dropped  parallel  Avith  the  carriage  window. 
There,  catching  sight  of  Mrs.  Bevis,  of  whose  possible 
presence  he  had  not  thought  once,  he  paid  his  com- 
pliments, and  made  his  apologies,  then  trotted  his  gaunt 
Ruber  again  beside  the  wheel,  and  resumed  talk,  but  not 
the  same  talk,  with  the  rector.  For  a  few  minutes  it 
turned  upon  the  state  of  this  and  that  ailing  parishioner ; 
for,  while  the  rector^left  all  the  duties  of  public  service  to 
his  curate,  he  ministered  to  the  ailing  and  the  poor  upon 
and  immediately  around  his  own  little  property,  which 
was  in  that  corner  of  his  parish  farthest  from  the  town  ; 
but  ere  long,  as  all  talk  was  sure  to  do  between  the  par- 
son and  anybody  who  owned  but  a  donkey,  it  veered 
round  in  a  certain  direction. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  feed  that  horse  of  yours  upon 
beans,  Faber,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  seem,  I  grant,"  returned  the  doctor;  "but  you 
should  see  him  feed  !  He  eats  enough  for  two,  but  he 
caiCt  make  fat  :  all  goes  to  muscle  and  pluck." 

"  Well,  I  must  allow  the  less  fat  he  has  to  carry  the 
better,  if  you're  in  the  way  of  heaving  him  over  such 
hedges  on  to  the  hard  road.  In  my  best  days  I  should 
never  have  faced  a  jump  like  that  in  cold  blood,"  said 
the  rector. 

"  I've  got  no  little  belongings  of  wife  or  child  to  make 
a  prudent  man  of  me,  you  see,"  returned  the  surgeon. 
"At  worst  it's  but  a  knock  on  the  head  and  a  longish 
snooze." 

The  rector  fancied  he  felt  his  wife's  shudder  shake  the 
carriage,  but  the  sensation  was  of  his  own  producing. 
The  careless  defiant  words  wrought  in  him  an  unaccount- 
able kind  of  terror:  it  seemed  almost  as  if  they  had 
rushed  of  themselves  from  his  own  lips. 


THE  LAiVE.  5 

*'  Take  care,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said  solemnly.  "  There 
may  be  something  to  believe,  though  you  don't  be- 
lieve it." 

"  I  must  take  the  chance,"  replied  Faber.  "  I  will  do 
my  best  to  make  calamity  of  long  life,  by  keeping  the 
rheumatic  and  epileptic  and  phthisical  alive,  while  I 
know  how.  Where  nothing  can  be  known,  I  prefer  not 
to  intrude." 

A  pause  followed.     At  length  said  the  rector, 

"  You  are  so  good  a  fellow,  Faber,  I  wisli  you  were 
better.     When  will  you  come  and  dine  with  me?" 

"  Soon,  I  hope,"  answered  the  surgeon,  "  but  I  am  too 
busy  at  present.  For  all  her  sweet  ways  and  looks,  the 
spring  is  not  friendly  to  man,  and  my  work  is  to  wage  war 
with  nature." 

A  second  pause  followed.  The  rector  would  gladly 
have  said  something,  but  nothing  would  come. 

"  By  the  bye,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  thought  I  saw  you 
pass  the  gate— let  me  see— on  Monday:  why  did  you 
not  look  in?" 

"  I  hadn't  a  moment's  time.  I  was  sent  for  to  a  patient 
in  the  village." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  I  heard  of  that.  I  wish  you  would 
give  me  your  impression  of  the  lady.  She  is  a  stranger 
here. — John,  that  gate  is  swinging  across  the  road.  Get 
down  and  shut  it. — Who  and  what  is  she  ?  " 

"  That  I  should  be  glad  to  learn  from  you.  All  I 
know  is  that  she  is  a  lady.  There  cannot  be  two  opinions 
as  to  that." 

"  They  tell  me  she  is  a  beauty,"  said  the  parson. 

The  doctor  nodded  his  head  emphatically. 

"  Haven't  you  seen  her  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Scarcely — only  her  back.  She  walks  well.  Do  you 
know  nothing  about  her  ?     Who  has  she  with  her  ?  " 

"  Nobody." 

"Then  Mrs.  Bcvis  shall  call  upon  her." 

"  I  think  at  present  she  had  better  not.  Mrs.  Pucl<  ridge 
is  a  good  old  soul,  and  pays  her  every  attention." 


6  PAUL  FABER. 

"  Vv'hat  is  the  matter  with  her  ?     Nothing  infectious  ?  " 

''  Oh,  no  !  She  has  caught  a  chill.  I  was  afraid  of 
pneumonia  yesterday." 

"Then  she  is  better?" 

"  I  confess  I  am  a  Uttle  anxious  about  her.  But  I 
ought  not  to  be  dawdling  like  this,  with  half  my  patients 
to  see.  I  must  bid  you  good  morning. — Good  morning, 
Mrs.  Bevis." 

As  he  spoke,  Faber  drew  rein,  and  let  the  carriage 
pass ;  then  turned  his  horse's  head  to  the  other  side  of 
the  way,  scrambled  up  the  steep  bank  to  the  field  above, 
and  galloped  towards  Glaston,  whose  great  church  rose 
high  in  sight.  Over  hedge  and  ditch  he  rode  straight  for 
its  tower. 

"  The  young  fool !"  said  the  rector,  looking  after  him 
admiringly,  and  pulling  up  his  horses  that  he  might  more 
conveniently  see  him  ride. 

"  Jolly  old  fellow  ! "  said  the  surgeon,  at  his  second 
jump.  "  I  wonder  how  much  he  believes  now  of  all  the 
rot !  Enough  to  humbug  himself  with — not  a  h.air  more. 
lie  has  no  passion  for  humbugging  other  people.  There's 
that  curate  of  his  now  believes  everything,  and  would 
humbug  the  whole  world  if  he  could  !  How  any  man 
can  come  to  fool  himself  so  thoroughly  as  that  man  does, 
is  a  mystery  to  me  ! — I  wonder  what  the  rector's  driving 
into  Glaston  for  on  a  Saturday." 

Paul  Faber  was  a  man  who  had  espoused  the  cause  of 
science  with  all  the  energy  cf  a  suppressed  poetic  nature. 
He  had  such  a  horror  of  all  kinds  of  intellectual  decep- 
tion or  mistake,  that  he  would  rather  run  the  risk  of  re- 
jecting any  number  of  truths  than  of  accepting  one  error. 
In  this  spirit  he  had  concluded  that,  as  no  immediate 
communication  had  ever  reached  his  eye  or  ear  or  hand 
from  any  creator  of  men,  he  had  no  ground  for  believing 
in  the  existence  ofsucli  a  creator;  while  a  thousand  unfit 
nesses  evident  in  the  v.orld,  rendered  the  existence  ut 
one  perfectly  wise  and  good  and  powerful,  absolutely 
imnossiblc.     If  one  said  to  him  that  he  believed  thousands 


THE  LANE.  7 

of  things  lie  had  never  himself  known,  he  answered  he 
did  so  upon  testimony.  If  one  rejoined  tliat  here  too  we 
have  testimony,  he  replied  it  was  not  credible  testimony, 
but  founded  on  such  experiences  as  he  was  justified  in 
considering  imaginarj-,  seeing  they  were  like  none  he  had 
ever  had  himself.  When  he  was  asked  whether,  while  he 
yet  believed  there  was  such  a  being  as  his  mother  told 
him  of,  he  had  ever  set  himself  to  act  upon  that  belief, 
he  asserted  himself  fortunate  in  the  omission  of  Vvhat 
might  have  riveted  on  him  the  fetters  of  a  degrading  faith. 
For  years  he  had  turned  his  face  towards  all  speculation 
favouring  the  non-existence  of  a  creating  Will,  his  back  to- 
wards all  tending  to  show  that  such  a  one  might  be.  Argu- 
ment on  the  latter  side  he  set  dov/n  as  born  of  prejudice, 
and  appealing  to  weakness ;  on  the  other,  as  springing  from 
courage,  and  appealing  to  honesty.  He  had  never  put  it 
to  himself  which  Vi'ould  be  the  worse  deception — to  be- 
lieve there  was  a  God  when  there  was  none;  or  to  believe 
there  was  no  God  when  there  was  one. 

He  had,  liowever,  a  large  share  of  the  lower  but  equally 
indispensable  half  of  religion — that,  namely,  which  has 
respect  to  one's  fellows.  Not  a  man  in  Glaston  was 
readier,  by  day  or  by  night,  to  run  to  the  help  of 
another,  and  that  not  merely  in  his  professional  capacity, 
but  as  a  neighbour,  whatever  the  sort  of  help  that  was 
needed. 

Thomas  Wingfold,  the  curate,  had  a  great  respect  for  him. 
Having  himself  passed  through  many  phases  of  serious, 
and  therefore  painful  doubt,  he  was  not  as  much  shocked 
by  the  surgeon's  unbelief  as  some  whose  real  faith  was 
even  less  than  Faber's;  but  he  seldom  laid  himself  out  to 
answer  his  objections.  Fie  sought  rather,  but  as  yet  ap- 
parently in  vain,  to  cause  the  roots  of  those  very  objec- 
tions to  strike  into,  and  thus  disclose  to  the  man  himself, 
the  deeper  strata  of  his  being.  This  might  indeed  at  first 
only  render  him  the  more  earnest  in  his  denials,  but  at 
length  it  would  probably  rouse  in  him  that  spiritual  nature 
to  which  alone  such  questions  really  belong,  and  which 


8  PAUL  I'ABIlA: 

alone  is  capable  of  coping  with  them.  The  first  notable 
result,  however,  of  the  surgeon's  intercourse  with  the 
curate  was,  that,  whereas  he  had  till  then  kept  his  opinions 
to  himself  in  the  presence  of  those  who  did  not  sympa- 
thize with  them,  he  now  uttered  his  disbelief  with  such 
plainness  as  I  have  shown  him  using  towards  the  rector. 
This  did  not  come  of  aggravated  antagonism,  but  of  ad- 
miration of  the  curate's  openness  in  tlie  presentment  of 
truths  which  must  be  unacceptable  to  the  majority  of  his 
congregation. 

There  had  arisen  therefore  betwnxt  the  doctor  and  the 
curate,  a  certain  sort  of  intimacy,  which  had  at  length 
come  to  the  rector's  ears.  He  had,  no  doubt,  before 
this  heard  many  complaints  against  the  latter,  but  he  had 
laughed  them  aside.  No  theologian  himself,  he  had  found 
the  questions  hitherto  raised  in  respect  of  Wingfold's 
teaching,  altogether  beyond  the  pale  of  his  interest.  He 
could  not  comprehend  why  people  should  not  content 
themselves  with  being  good  Christians,  minding  their  own 
affairs,  going  to  church,  and  so  feeling  safe  for  the  next 
world.  What  did  opinion  matter  so  long  as  they  were 
good  Christians  ?  He  did  not  exactly  know  what  he 
believed  himself,  but  he  hoped  he  was  none  the  less  of  a 
Christian  for  that  !  Was  it  not  enough  to  hold  fast  what- 
ever lay  in  the  apostles',  the  Nicene,  and  the  Athanasian 
creed,  without  splitting  metaphysical  hairs  with  your 
neighbour?  But  was  it  decent  that  his  curate  should  be 
hand  and  glove  with  one  who  denied  the  existence  of  a 
God  ?  He  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt  the  faith  of 
Wingfold ;  but  a  man  must  have  some  respect  for  ap- 
pearances :  appearances  were  facts  as  well  as  realities 
were  facts.  An  honest  man  must  not  keep  company  with 
a  thief,  if  he  would  escape  the  judgment  of  being  of 
thievish  kind.  Somctliing  must  be  done;  probablv  some- 
thing said  would  be  enough,  and  the  rector  was  now  on 
his  way  to  say  it. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    minister's    DOOR. 

''VERYBODY  knew  Mr.  Faber,  whetlier  he 
lode  Ruber  or  Niger — Rubber  and  Nigger, 
his  groom  called  them, — and  many  were  the 
greetings  that  met  him  as  he  passed  along 
Pine  Street,  for,  despite  the  brand  of  his 
.itheism,  he  was  popular.  The  few  ladies  out  shopping 
bowed  graciously,  for  both  his  manners  and  his  person 
were  pleasing,  and  his  professional  attentions  unexcep- 
tionable. When  he  dropped  into  a  quick  walk,  to  let 
Ruber  cool  a  little  ere  he  reached  his  stall,  he  was  several 
times  accosted  and  detained.  The  last  who  addressed 
him  was  Mr.  Drew,  the  principal  draper  of  the  town.  He 
had  been  standing  for  some  time  in  his  shop-door,  but, 
as  Faber  was  about  to  turn  the  corner,  he  stepped  out  on 
the  pavement,  and  the  doctor  checked  his  horse  in  the 
gutter. 

"  I  wish  you  would  look  in  upon  Mr.  Drake,  sir,"  he 
said.  "  I  am  quite  uneasy  about  him.  Indeed  I  am  sure 
he  must  be  in  a  bad  way,  though  he  won't  allow  it. 
He's  not  an  easy  man  to  do  anything  for,  but  just  you  let 
me  know  what  can  be  done  for  him — and  we'll  contrive. 
A  nod,  you  know,  doctor,  6^(r." 

"  I  don't  well  see  how  I  can,"  returned  Faber.     -'To 


lo  PAUL  FABER. 

call  now  without  being  sent  for,  when  I  never  called 
before  ! — No,  Mr.  Diew,  I  don't  think  I  could." 

It  was  a  lovely  spring  noon.  The  rain  tliat  had  fallen 
heavily  during  the  night,  lay  in  flashing  pools  that  filled  the 
street  with  suns.  Here  and  there  were  little  gardens  before 
the  houses,  and  the  bushes  in  them  were  hung  with  bright 
drops,  so  bright  that  the  rain  seemed  to  have  fallen  from 
the  sun  himself,  not  from  the  clouds. 

"  Wliy,  goodness  gracious  !  "  cried  the  draper,  "  here's 
your  excuse  come  direct  ! " 

Under  the  very  nose  of  the  doctor's  great  horse  stood 
a  little  woman-child,  staring  straight  up  at  the  huge  red 
head  above  her.  Now  Ruber  was  not  quite  gentle,  and  it 
was  with  some  dismay  that  his  master,  although  the 
animal  showed  no  offence  at  the  glowering  little  thing, 
pulled  him  back  a  step  or  two  with  the  curb,  the  thought 
darting  through  him  how  easily  with  one  pash  of  his 
mighty  hoof  the  horse  could  annihilate  a  mirrored 
universe. 

"  Where  from  ?  "  he  asked,  by  wliat  lie  would  himself 
have  called  a  half-conscious  cerebration. 

"  From  somewhere  they  say  you  don't  believe  in, 
doctor,"  answered  the  draper.  "  It's  little  Amanda,  the 
minister's  own  darling, — Naughty  little  dear  !  "  he  con- 
tinued, his  round  good-humoured  face  wrinkled  all  over 
with  smiles,  as  he  caught  up  the  truant,  "  what  ever  do 
you  mean  by  splashing  through  every  gutter  between 
home  and  here,  making  a  little  drab  of  yourself?  Why 
your  frock  is  as  wet  as  a  dish-clout  ! — and  your  shoes  ! 
My  gracious  ! " 

The  little  one  answered  only  by  patting  his  cheeks, 
which  in  shape  much  resembled  her  own,  with  her  little 
fat  puds,  as  if  she  had  been  beating  a  drum,  while  Faber 
looked  down  amused  and  interested. 

"  Here,  doctor  !  "  the  draper  went  on,  "  you  take  tlie 
little  mischief  on  the  saddle  before  ynu,  and  carry  her 
home  :  that  will  be  your  excuse." 

As  he  spoke,  he  held  up  the  child  to  him.     Fabcr  took 


THE  MINISTER'S  DOOR.  n 

her,  and  sitting  as  far  back  in  the  saddle  as  he  could,  set 
her  upon  the  pommel.  She  screwed  up  her  eyes,  and 
grinned  with  delight,  spreading  her  mouth  wide,  and 
showing  an  incredible  number  of  daintiest  little  teeth. 
When  Ruber  began  to  move,  she  shrieked  in  her  ecstasy. 

Holding  his  horse  to  a  walk,  the  doctor  crossed  the 
main  street  and  went  down  a  side  one  towards  the  river, 
whence  again  he  entered  a  narrow  lane.  There  with 
the  handle  of  his  whip  he  managed  to  ring  the  door-beli 
of  a  little  old-fashioned  house  which  rose  immediately 
from  the  lane  without  even  a  footpath  between.  The 
door  was  opened  by  a  lady-like  young  woman,  with  smooth 
soft  brown  hair,  a  white  forehead,  and  serious,  rather 
troubled  eyes. 

"  Aunty  !  aunty  !  "  cried  the  child,  "  Ducky  'iding  !  " 

Miss  Drake  looked  a  little  surprised.  The  doctor 
lifted  his  hat.  She  gravely  returned  his  greeting,  and 
stretched  up  her  arms  to  take  the  child.  But  she  drew 
back,  nestling  against  Faber. 

"Amanda!  come,  dear,"  said  Miss  Drake.  '-How 
kind  of  Dr.  Faber  to  bring  you  home  !  I'm  afraid  you've 
been  a  naughty  child  again— running  out  into  the  street." 

"  Such  a  g'eat  'ide  ! "  cried  Amanda,  heedless  of  reproof. 
"  A  yeal  'ossy — big  !  big  !  " 

She  spread  her  arms  wide,  in  indication  of  the  vastness 
of  the  upbearing  body  whereon  she  sat.  But  still  she 
leaned  back  against  the  doctor,  and  he  waited  the  result 
in  amused  silence.  Again  her  aunt  raised  her  hands  to 
take  her. 

"  Mo'  'yide  !  "  cried  the  child,  looking  up  backward,  to 
find  Faber's  eyes. 

But  her  aunt  caught  her  by  the  feet,  and  amid 
struggling  and  laughter  drew  her  down,  and  held  her  in  her 
arms. 

"  I  hope  your  father  is  pretty  well,  Miss  Drake,"  said 
the  doctor,  wasting  no  time  in  needless  explanation. 

"Duc';y,"  said  the  girl,  setting  down  the  child,  "  go  and 
tell  grandpapa  how  kind  Dr.  Faber  has  been  to  you.   Tell 


I  a  PAUL  FABER. 

him  he  is  at  the  door."  Then  turning  to  Faber,  "  I  am 
sorry  to  say  he  does  not  seem  at  all  well,"  she  answered 
him.  "  He  has  had  a  good  deal  of  annoyance  lately, 
and  at  his  age  that  sort  of  thing  tells." 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  up  at  the  doctor,  full  in  his 
face,  but  with  a  curious  quaver  in  her  eyes.  Nor  was  it 
any  w^onder  she  should  look  at  him  strangely,  for  she  felt 
towards  him  very  strangely  :  to  her  he  was  as  it  were  the 
apostle  of  a  kakangel,  the  prophet  of  a  doctrine  that  was 
evil,  yet  perhaps  was  a  truth.  Terrible  doubts  had  for 
some  time  been  assailing  her — doubts  which  she  could 
m  part  trace  to  him,  and  as  he  sat  there  on  Ruber,  he 
looked  like  a  beautiful  evil  angel,  who  knew  there  was 
no  God — an  evil  angel  whom  the  curate,  by  his  bold 
speech,  had  raised,  and  could  not  banish. 

The  surgeon  had  scarcely  begun  a  reply,  when  the  old 
minister  made  his  appearance.  He  was  a  tall,  well-built 
man,  with  strong  features,  rather  handsome  than  other- 
wise ;  but  his  hat  hung  on  his  occiput,  gave  his  head  a 
look  o?  weakness  and  oddity  that  by  nature  did  not  be- 
long to  it,  while  baggy  ill-made  clothes  and  big  shoes 
manifested  a  reaction  from  the  over-trimness  of  earlier 
years.     He  greeted  the  doctor  with  a  severe  smile. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Faber,"  he  said,  "for 
bringing  me  home  my  little  runaway.  AVhere  did  you 
find  her?" 

*'  Under  my  horse's  head,  like  the  temple  between  the 
paws  of  the  Sphinx,"  answered  Faber,  speaking  a  parable 
without  knowing  it. 

"  She  is  a  fearless  little  damsel,"  said  the  minister,  in  a 
husky  voice  that  had  once  rung  clear  as  a  bell  over 
crowded  congregations,  " — too  fearless  at  times.  But 
the  very  ignorance  of  danger  seems  the  panoply  of  child- 
hood. And  indeed  who  knows  in  the  midst  of  what  evils 
we  all  walk  that  never  touch  us  ! " 

"  A  Solon  of  platitudes  !  "  said  the  doctor  to  himself. 

"  She  has  been  in  the  river  once,  and  almost  twice," 
Mr.  Drake  went  on.     " — I  shall  have  to  tie  you  with  a 


THE  MINISTER'S  DOOR.  13 

string,  pussie  !  Come  away  from  the  liorse.  What  if  he 
should  take  to  stroking  you  !  I  am  afraid  you  would 
find  his  hands  both  hard  and  heavy." 

"  How  do  you  stand  this  trying  spring-weather,  Mr. 
Drake  ?  I  don't  hear  the  best  accounts  of  you,"  said  the 
surgeon,  drawing  Ruber  a  pace  back  from  the  door. 

"  I  am  as  well  as  at  my  age  I  can — perhaps— expect 
to  be,"  answered  the  minister.  "I  am  getting  old — and 
— and — we  all  have  our  troubles, — and,  I  trust,  our  God 
also,  to  set  them  right  for  us,"  he  added,  with  a  suggest- 
ing look  in  the  face  of  the  doctor. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  said  Faber  to  himself,  "  the  spring  weather 
has  roused  the  worshipping  instinct !  The  clergy  are  awake 
to-day  !  I  had  better  look  out,  or  it  will  soon  be  too  hot 
for  me." 

"  I  can't  look  you  in  the  face,  doctor,"  resumed  the 
old  man  after  a  pause,  "  and  believe  what  people  say  of 
you.  It  can't  be  that  you  don't  even  believe  there  is  a 
God?" 

Faber  would  rather  have  said  nothing  ;  but  his  integrity 
he  must  keep  fast  hold  of,  or  perish  in  his  own  esteem. 

"  If  there  be  one,"  he  replied,  "  I  only  state  a  fact  when 
I  say  he  has  never  given  me  ground  sufficient  to  think 
so.  You  say  yourselves  he  has  favourites  to  whom  he 
reveals  himself :  1  am  not  one  of  them,  and  must  there- 
fore of  necessity  be  an  unbeliever." 

"  But  think,  Mr.  Faber — if  there  should  be  a  God, 
what  an  insult  it  is  to  deny  him  existence." 

"  I  can't  see  it,"  returned  the  surgeon,  suppressing  a 
laugh.  "If  there  be  such  a  one,  would  he  not  have  me 
speak  the  truth?  Anyhow,  what  great  matter  can  it  be 
to  him  that  one  should  say  he  has  never  seen  him,  and 
can't  therefore  believe  he  is  to  be  seen?  A  god  should 
be  above  that  sort  of  pride." 

The  minister  was  too  much  shocked  to  find  any 
answer  beyond  a  sad  reproving  shake  of  the  head.  But 
he  felt  almost  as  if  the  hearing  of  such  irreverence  with- 
out withering  retort,  made  him  a  party  to  the  sin  against 


14  PAUL  FABER. 

the  Holy  Ghost.  Was  he  not  now  conferring  with  one 
of  the  generals  of  the  army  of  Antichrist?  Ought  he  not 
to  turn  his  back  upon  him,  and  walk  into  the  house  ? 
But  a  surge  of  concern  for  the  frank  young  fellow  who 
sat  so  strong  and  alive  upon  the  great  horse,  broke  over 
his  heart,  and  he  looked  up  at  him  pitifully. 

Faber  mistook  the  cause  and  object  of  his  evident 
emotion. 

"  Come  now,  Mr.  Drake,  be  frank  with  me,"  he  said. 
"  You  are  out  of  health  :  let  me  know  what  is  the  matter. 
Though  I'm  not  religious,  I'm  not  a  humbug,  and  only 
speak  the  truth  when  I  say  I  should  be  glad  to  serve  you. 
A  man  must  be  neighbourly,  or  what  is  there  left  ot 
him  ?  Even  you  will  allow  that  our  duty  to  our  neighbour 
is  half  the  law,  and  there  is  some  help  in  medicine,  though 
I  confess  it  is  no  science  yet,  and  we  are  but  dabblers." 

"  But,"  said  INIr.  Drake,  "I  don't  choose  to  accept  the 
help  of  one  who  looks  upon  all  who  think  with  me  as  a 
set  of  humbugs,  and  regards  those  who  deny  everything 
as  the  only  honest  men." 

"  By  Jove  !  sir,  I  take  you  for  an  honest  man,  or  I 
should  never  trouble  my  head  about  you.  What  I  say 
of  such  as  you  is,  that,  having  inherited  a  lot  of  humbug, 
you  don't  know  it  for  such,  and  do  the  best  you  can 
with  it." 

"  If  such  is  your  opinion  of  me— and  I  have  no  right 
to  complain  of  it  in  my  own  person — I  should  just  like  to 
ask  you  one  question  about  another,"  said  Mr.  Drake  : 
"  Do  you  in  your  heart  believe  that  Jesus  Christ  was  an 
impostor  ?  " 

"  I  believe,  if  the  .story  about  him  be  true,  that  he  was  a 
well-meaning  man,  enormously  self-deceived." 

"  Your  judgment  seems  to  me  enormously  illogical. 
That  any  ordinarily  good  man  should  so  deceive  himself, 
appears  to  my  mind  altogether  impossible  and  incredible.* 

"Ah  !  but  he  was  an  extraordinarily  good  man." 

"  Therefore  the  more  likely  to  think  too  much  ot 
himself?  " 


THE  MIXISTERS  DOOR.  15 

"Why  not?  I  see  the  same  thing  in  his  followers  all 
about  me." 

"  Doubtless  the  servant  shall  be  as  his  master,"  said 
the  minister,  and  dosed  his  mouth,  resolved  to  speak  no 
more.  But  his  conscience  woke,  and  goaded  him  with, 
the  truth  that  had  come  from  the  mouth  of  its  enemy — 
the  reproach  his  disciples  brought  upon  their  master,  for,  in 
the  judgment  of  the  world,  the  master  is  as  his  disciples. 

"You  Christians,"  the  doctor  went  on,  "seem  tome 
to  make  yourselves,  most  unnecessarily,  the  slaves  of 
a  fancied  ideal.  I  have  no  such  ideal  to  contemplate  ; 
yet  I  am  not  aware  that  you  do  better  by  each  other 
than  I  am  ready  to  do  for  any  man.  I  can't  pretend 
to  love  everybody,  but  I  do  my  best  for  those  I  can  help. 
Mr.  Drake,  I  would  gladly  serve  you." 

The  old  man  said  nothing.  His  mood  was  stormy. 
Would  he  accept  life  itself  from  the  hand  of  him  who 
denied  his  master  ? — seek  to  the  powers  of  darkness  for 
cure  ? — kneel  to  Antichrist  for  favour,  as  if  he  and  not 
Jesus  were  lord  of  life  and  death?  Would  he  pray  a 
man  to  whom  the  Bible  was  no  better  than  a  book  of 
ballads,  to  come  betwixt  him  and  the  evils  of  growing 
age  and  disappointment,  to  lighten  for  him  the  grass- 
hopper, and  stay  the  mourners  as  they  went  about  his 
streets  !  He  had  half  turned,  and  w^as  on  the  point  of 
walking  silent  into  the  house,  when  he  bethought  himself 
of  the  impression  it  would  make  on  the  unbeliever,  if  he 
were  thus  to  meet  the  offer  of  his  kindness.  Half 
turned,  he  stood  hesitating. 

"  I  have  a  passion  for  therapeutics,"  persisted  the 
doctor ;  "  and  if  I  can  do  anything  to  ease  the  yoke 
upon  the  shoulders  of  my  fellows, " 

Mr.  Drake  did  not  hear  the  end  of  the  sentence  :  he 
heard  instead,  somewhere  in  his  soul,  a  voice  saying, 
"  My  yoke  is  easy,  and  my  burden  is  light."  He  cotcld 
not  let  Faber  help  him. 

"  Doctor,  you  have  the  great  gift  of  a  kind  heart,"  he 
began,  still  half  turned  from  him. 


l6  PAUL  rABKR. 

"  My  heart  is  like  other  people's,"  interrupted  Faber. 
"  If  a  man  wants  help,  and  I've  got  it,  what  more  natural 
than  that  we  should  come  together?  " 

There  was  in  the  doctor  an  opposition  to  everything 
that  had  if  it  were  but  the  odour  of  religion  about  it, 
which  might  well  have  suggested  doubt  _  of  his  own 
doubt,  and  weakness  buttressing  itself  with  assertion. 
But  the  case  was  not  so.  What  untruth  there  was  in 
him  was  of  another  and  more  subtle  kind.  Neither 
must  it  be  supposed  that  he  was  a  propagandi-t,  a  prose- 
lytizer.  Say  nothing,  and  the  doctor  said  nothing.  Fire 
but  a  saloon  pistol, "however,  and  off  went  a  great  gun  in 
answer— with  no  bravado,  for  the  doctor  was  a  gentle- 
man. 

"  Mr.  Faber,"  said  the  minister,  now  turning  towards 
him,  and  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  '-if  you  had  a 
friend  whom  you  loved  with  all  your  heart,  would  you  be 
under  obligation  to  a  man  who  counted  your  friendship 
a  folly?" 

*'  The  cases  are  not  parallel.  Say  the  man  merely  did 
not  believe  your  friend  was  alive,  and  there  could  be  no 
insult  to  either." 

"  If  the  denial  of  his  being  in  life,  opened  the  door  to 
the  greatest  wrongs  that  could  be  done  him — and  if  that 
denial  seemed  to  me  to  have  its  source  in  some  element 
of  moral  antagonism  to  him — could  I  accept— I  put  it 
to  yourself,  Mr.  Faber— ^^?//^  1  accept  assistance  from 
that  man?  Do  not  take  it  ill.  You  prize  honesty — 
so  do  I :  Ten  times  rather  would  I  cease  to  live  than 
accept  life  at  the  hand  of  an  enemy  to  my  lord  and 
master." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Drake,"  said  the  doctor  ;  "  but 
from  your  point  of  view  I  suppose  you  are  right.  Good 
morning." 

He  turned  Ruber  from  the  minister's  door,  went  off 
quickly,  and  entered  his  own  stable-yard  just  as  the 
rector's  carriage  appeared  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
street. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE     MANOR-HOUSE. 


BEVIS  drove  up  to  the  inn,  threw  the 
reins  to  his  coachman,  got  down,  and 
helped  his  wife  out  of  the  carriage.  Then 
they  parted,  she  to  take  her  gift  of  flowers 
and  butter  to  her  poor  relation,  he  to  call 
upon  Mrs.  Ramshorn. 

That  lady,  being,  as  everybody  knew,  the  widow  of  a 
dean,  considered  herself  the  chief  ecclesiastical  authority 
in  Glaston.  Her  acknowledged  friends  would,  if  pressed, 
have  found  themselves  compelled  to  admit  that  her 
theology  was  both  scanty  and  confused,  that  her  influence 
was  not  of  the  most  elevating  nature,  and  that  those  who 
doubted  her  personal  piety  might  have  something  to  say 
in  excuse  of  their  uncharitableness ;  but  she  spoke  in  the 
might  of  the  matrimonial  nimbus  around  her  head,  and 
her  claims  were  undisputed  in  Glaston.  There  was  a  pro- 
priety, springing  from  quite  another  source,. however,  in 
the  rector's  turning  his  footsteps  first  towards  the  Manor 
House,  where  she  resided.  For  his  curate,  whom  his 
business  in  Glaston  that  Saturday  concerned,  had,  some 
nine  or  ten  months  before,  married  Mrs.  Ramshorn's 
niece,  Helen  Lingard  by  name,  who  for  many  years  had 
lived  with  her  aunt,  adding,  if  not  to  the  comforts  of 
C 


1}  PAUL  FABER. 

the  housekeeping,  for  Mrs.  Ramshoni  was  plentifully 
enough  provided  for  the  remnant  of  her  abode  in  this 
world,  yet  considerably  to  the  style  of  her  menage. 
Therefore,  when,  all  of  a  sudden  as  it  seemed,  the  girl 
calmly  insisted  on  marrying  the  curate,  a  man  obnoxious 
to  every  fibre  of  her  aunt's  ecclesiastical  nature,  and 
transferring  to  him,  with  a  most  unrighteous  scorn  of 
marriage-settlements,  the  entire  property  inherited  from 
her  father  and  brother,  the  disappointment  of  Mrs.  Ram- 
shorn  iu  her  niece  was  equalled  only  by  her  disgust 
at  the  object  of  her  choice. 

With  a  firm,  dignified  step,  as  if  he  measured  the 
distance,  the  rector  paced  the  pavement  between  the  inn 
and  the  Manor  House.  He  knew  of  no  cause  for  the 
vailing  of  an  eyelash  before  human  being.  It  was  true 
he  had  closed  his  eyes  to  certain  faults  in  the  man  of 
good  estate  and  old  name  who  had  done  him  the  honour  of 
requesting  the  hand  of  his  one  cliild,  and,  leaving  her  to 
judge  for  herself,  had  not  given  her  the  knowledge  which 
might  have  led  her  to  another  conclusion  ;  it  had  satis- 
fied him  that  the  man's  wild  oats  were  sown  :  after  the 
crop  he  made  no  inquiry.  It  was  also  true  that  he  had 
not  mentioned  a  certain  vice  in  the  last  horse  he  sold; 
but  then  he  hoped  the  severe  measures  taken  had  cured 
him.  He  was  aware  that  at  times  he  took  a  few  glasses 
of  port  more  than  he  would  have  judged  it  proper  to 
carry  to  the  pulpit  or  the  communion  table,  for  those  he 
counted  the  presence  of  his  Maker ;  but  there  was  a 
time  for  everything.  He  was  conscious  to  himself,  I 
repeat,  of  nothing  to  cause  him  shame,  and  in  the  tramp 
of  his  boots  there  was  certainly  no  self-abasement.  It 
was  true  he  performed  next  to  none  of  the  duties  of  the 
rectorship — but  then  neither  did  he  turn  any  of  its  in- 
come to  his  own  uses :  part  he  paid  his  curate,  and  the 
rest  he  laid  out  on  the  church,  which  might  easily  have 
consumed  six  times  the  amount  in  desirable,  if  not  ab- 
solutely needful  repairs.  What  further  question  could 
be  made  of  the  matter  ?  the  Church  had  her  work  done, 


7HE  MAiYOR-lIOUSE.  I9 

and  one  of  her  most  precious  buildings  preserved  from 
ruin  to  the  bargain.  How  indignant  he  would  have  been 
at  the  suggestion  that  he  was  after  all  only  an  idolater, 
worshipping  what  he  called  The  Church,  instead  of  the 
Lord  Christ,  the  heart-inhabiting,  world-ruling  king  of 
heaven  !  But  he  was  a  very  good  sort  of  idolater,  and 
some  of  the  Christian  graces  had  filtered  through  the 
roofs  of  the  temple  upon  him — eminently  those  of  hos- 
pitality and  general  humanity — even  uprightness  so  far  as 
his  light  extended  ;  so  that  he  did  less  to  obstruct  the 
religion  he  thought  he  furthered,  than  some  men  who 
preach  it  as  on  the  house-tops. 

It  was  from  policy,  not  from  confidence  in  Mrs.  Ram- 
shorn,  that  he  went  to  her  first.  He  liked  his  curate,  and 
every  one  knew  she  hated  him.  If,  of  anything  he  did, 
two  interpretations  were  possible—one  good,  and  one 
bad,  there  was  no  room  for  a  doubt  as  to  which  she 
would  adopt  and  publish.  Not  even  to  herself,  however, 
did  she  allow  that  one  chief  cause  of  her  hatred  was, 
that,  having  all  her  life  been  used  to  a  pair  of  horses,  she 
had  now  to  put  up  with  only  a  brougham. 

To  the  brass  knocker  on  her  door,  the  rector 
applied  himself,  and  sent  a  confident  announcement 
of  his  presence  through  the  house.  Almost  instantly  the 
long-faced  butler,  half  undertaker,  half  parish-clerk, 
opened  the  door,  and  seeing  the  rector,  drew  it  wide  to 
the  wall,  inviting  him  to  step  into  the  library,  as  he 
had  no  doubt  Mrs.  Ramshorn  would  be  at  home  to  him. 
Nor  was  it  long  ere  she  appeared,  in  rather  youthful 
morning  dress,  and  gave  him  a  hearty  welcome ;  after 
which,  by  no  very  wide  spirals  of  descent,  the  talk 
swooped  presently  upon  the  curate. 

"  I'hc  fact  is,"  at  length  said  the  memorial  shadow  of 
the  dean  deceased,  "  Mr.  Wingfold  is  not  a  gentleman. 
It  grieves  me  to  say  so  of  the  husband  of  my  niece,  who 
has  been  to  me  as  my  own  child,  but  the  truth  must 
be  spoken.  It  may  be  difficult  to  keep  such  men  out 
of  ho!y  orders,  but  if  tvcr  tb.e  benefices  of  the   church 


20  PAUL  FABER. 

come  to  be  freely  bestowed  upon  them,  that  moment 
the  death-bell  of  religion  is  rung  in  England.  My  late 
husband  said  so.  While  sucli  men  keep  to  barns  and 
conventicles  we  can  despise  them,  but  when  they  creep 
into  the  fold,  then  there  is  just  cause  for  alarm.  The 
longer  I  live,  the  better  I  see  my  poor  husband  was 
right." 

"  I  should  scarcely  have  thought  such  a  man  as  you 
describe  could  have  captivated  Helen,"  said  the  rector 
with  a  smile. 

"Depend  upon  it  she  perceives  her  mistake  well  enough 
by  this  time,"  returned  Mrs.  Ramshorn.  "A  lady  born 
and  bred  must  make  the  discovery  before  a  week  is  over. 
But  poor  Helen  always  was  headstrong  !  And  in  this 
out-of-the-world  place  she  saw  so  little  of  gentlemen  ! " 

The  rector  could  not  help  thinking  birth  and  breeding 
must  go  for  little  indeed,  if  nothing  less  than  marriage 
could  reveal  to  a  lady  that  a  man  was  not  a  gentleman. 

"Nobody  knows,"  continued  Mrs.  Ramshorn,  "who 
or  what  his  father — not  to  say  his  grandfather,  was  ! 
But  would  you  believe  it !  when  I  asked  her  who  the 
man  was,  having  a  right  to  information  concerning  the 
person  she  was  about  to  connect  with  the  family,  she 
told  me  she  had  never  thought  of  enquiring.  I  pressed 
it  upon  her  as  a  duty  she  owed  to  society  ;  she  told  me 
slie  was  content  with  the  man  himself,  and  was  not 
going  to  ask  him  about  his  family.  She  would  wait  till 
they  were  married  !  Actually,  on  my  word  as  a  lady, 
she  said  so,  Mr.  Bevis  !  What  could  I  do  ?  She  was  of 
age,  and  independent  fortune.  And  as  to  gratitude,  I 
know  the  ways  of  the  world  too  well  to  look  for  that." 

"  We  old  ones  " — Mrs.  Ramshorn  bridled  a  little :  she 
was  only  fifty-seven  ! — "  have  had  our  turn,  and  theirs  is 
come,"  said  the  rector,  rather  inconsequently. 

"  And  a  pretty  mess  they  are  like  to  make  of  it  ! 
—what  with  infidelity  and  blaspliemy — I  must  say  it — 
blasphemy  I — Really  you  must  do  something,  Mr. 
Bevis.     Things  have  arrived  at  such  a  pass  that,  I  give 


THE  MAXOR-IIOUSE.  f.\ 

you  my  word,  reflections  not  a  few  arc  made  upon  the 
rector  for  committing  his  flock  to  the  care  of  such  a  wolf 
— a  fox  /  call  him." 

"To-morrow  I  shall  hear  him  preach,"  said  the  parson. 

"Then  I  sincerely  trust  no  one  will  give  him  warning 
of  your  intention  :  he  is  so  clever,  he  would  throw  dust  in 
anybody's  eyes." 

The  rector  laughed.  He  had  no  overweening  estimate 
of  his  own  abilities,  but  he  did  pride  himself  a  little  on 
his  common  sense. 

"  But,"  the  lady  went  on,  "in  a  place  like  this,  where 
everybody  talks,  I  fear  the  chance  is  small  against  his 
hearing  of  your  arrival.  Anyhow  I  would  not  have  you 
trust  to  one  sermon.  He  will  say  just  the  opposite  the 
next.  He  contradicts  himself  incredibly.  Even  in  the 
same  sermon  I  have  heard  him  say  things  diametrically 
opposite." 

"  He  cannot  have  gone  so  far  as  to  advocate  the  real 
presence  :  a  rumour  of  that  has  reached  me,"  said  the 
rector. 

"  There  it  is  !"  cried  Mrs.  Ramshorn.  "  If  you  had 
asked  me,  I  should  have  said  he  insisted  the  holy 
eucharist  meant  neither  more  nor  less  than  any  other 
meal  to  which  some  one  said  a  grace.  The  man  has  not 
an  atom  of  consistency  in  his  nature.  He  will  say  and 
unsay  as  fast  as  one  sentence  can  follow  another,  and  if 
you  tax  him  with  it,  he  will  support  both  sides  :  at  least, 
that  is  my  experience  with  him.     I  speak  as  I  find  him." 

"  What  then  would  you  have  me  do?"  said  the  rector. 
"  The  straightforward  way  would  doubtless  be  to  go  to 
him." 

"  You  would,  I  fear,  gain  nothing  by  that.  He  is  so 
specious  I  The  only  safe  way  is  to  dismiss  him  without 
giving  a  reason.  Otherwise,  he  will  certainly  prove  you  in 
the  wrong.  Don't  take  my  word.  Get  the  opinion  of 
your  churchwardens.  Everybody  knows  he  has  made  an 
atheist  of  poor  Faber.  It  is  sadder  than  I  have  words  to 
say.     He  was  such  a  gentlemanly  fellow  ! " 


22  PAUL  FABER. 

The  rector  took  his  departure,  and  made  a  series  of 
calls  upon  those  he  judged  the  most  influential  of  the 
congregation.  He  did  not  think  to  ask  for  what  they 
were  influential,  or  why  he  should  go  to  them  rather  than 
the  people  of  the  alms-house.  What  he  heard  em- 
barrassed him  not  a  litde.  His  friends  spoke  highly  of 
Wingfold,  his  enemies  otherwise  :  the  character  of  his 
friends  his  judge  did  not  attempt  to  weigh  with  that  of 
his  enemies,  neither  did  he  attempt  to  discover  why  these 
were  his  enemies  and  those  his  friends.  No  more  did  he 
make  the  observation,  that,  while  his  enemies  differed 
in  the  things  they  said  against  him,  his  friends  agreed 
in  those  they  said  for  him  ;  the  fact  being,  that  those 
who  did  as  he  roused  their  conscience  to  see  they 
ought,  more  or  less  understood  the  man  and  his  aims  ; 
w-hile  those  who  would  not  submit  to  the  authority 
he  brought  to  bear  upon  them,  and  yet  tried  to  measure 
and  explain  him  after  the  standards  of  their  own  being 
and  endeavours,  failed  ludicrously.  The  churchwardens 
told  him  that,  ever  since  he  came,  the  curate  had 
done  nothing  but  set  the  congregation  by  the  ears ; 
and  that  he  could  not  fail  to  receive  as  a  weighty 
charge.  But  they  told  him  also  that  some  of  the 
principal  dissenters  declared  him  to  be  a  fountain  of 
life  in  the  place — and  that  seemed  to  him  to  in- 
volve the  worst  accusation  of  all.  For,  without  going  so 
far  as  to  hold,  or  even  say  without  meaning  it,  that 
dissenters  ought  to  be  burned,  Mr.  Bevis  regarded  it  as 
one  of  the  first  of  merits,  that  a  man  should  be  a  good 
(hurchman. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE    RECTORY. 


HE  curate  had  been  in  the  study  all  the 
morning.  Three  times  had  his  wife  softly 
turned  the  handle  of  his  door,  but  finding  it 
locked,  had  re-turned  the  handle  yet  more 
softly,  and  departed  noiselessly.  Next  time 
she  knocked— and  he  came  to  her  pale-eyed,  but  his 
face  almost  luminous,  and  a  smile  hovering  about  his  lips  : 
she  knew  then  that  either  a  battle  had  been  fought 
amongst  the  hills,  and  he  had  won,  or  a  thought-storm 
)iad  been  raging,  through  which  at  length  had  descended 
the  meek-eyed  Peace.  She  looked  in  his  face  for  a 
moment  with  silent  reverence,  then  offered  her  lips,  took 
him  by  the  hand,  and,  without  a  word,  led  him  down 
the  stair  to  their  mid-day  meal.  When  that  was 
over,  she  made  him  lie  down,  and  taking  a  novel, 
read  him  asleep.  She  woke  him  to  an  early  tea — 
not,  however,  after  it,  to  return  to  his  study  :  in  the 
drawing-room,  beside  his  wife,  he  always  got  the  germ  of 
his  discourse — his  germon,  he  called  it — ready  for  its 
growth  in  the  pul])it.  Now  he  lay  on  the  couch,  now 
rose  and  stood,  now  walked  about  the  room,  now  threw 
himself  again  on  the  couch  ;  while,  all  the  time,  his  wife 
played  softly  on  her  piano,  extemporizing  and  interweav- 


24  FAUL  FABER. 

ing,  with  an  invention,  taste,  and  expression,  of  which 
before  her  marriage  she  had  been  quite  incapable. 

The  text  in  his  mind  was,  "  Yc  cannot  serve  God  and 
Mammon."  But  not  once  did  he  speak  to  his  wife  about 
it.  He  did  not  even  tell  her  what  his  text  was.  Long 
ago  he  had  given  her  to  understand  that  he  could  not 
part  with  her  as  one  of  his  congregation — could  not 
therefore  take  her  into  his  sermon  before  he  met  her  in 
her  hearing  phase  in  church,  with  the  rows  of  pews  and 
faces  betwixt  him  and  her,  making  her  once  more  one 
of  his  flock,  the  same  into  whose  heart  he  had  so  oftcii 
agonized  to  pour  the  words  of  rousing,  of  strength,  of 
consolation. 

On  the  Saturday,  except  his  wife  saw  good  reason,  she 
would  let  no  one  trouble  him,  and  almost  the  sole  reason 
she  counted  good  was  trouble  :  if  a  person  was  troubled, 
then  he  might  trouble.  His  friends  knew  this,  and 
seldom  came  near  him  on  a  Saturday.  But  that  even- 
ing, Mr.  Drew,  the  draper,  who,  although  a  dissenter,  was 
one  of  the  curate's  warmest  friends,  called  late,  when,  he 
thought,  in  his  way  of  looking  at  sermons,  that  for  the 
morrow  must  be  now  finished,  and  laid  aside  like  a  parcel 
for  delivery  the  next  morning.  Helen  went  to  him.  He 
told  her  the  rector  was  in  the  town,  had  called  upon 
not  a  few  of  his  parishioners,  and  doubtless  was  going  to 
church  in  the  morning. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Drew.  I  perfectly  understand  your 
kindness,"  said  Mrs.  Wingfold,  "  but  I  shall  not  tell  my 
husband  to-night." 

"Excuse  the  liberty,  ma'am,  but — but — do  you  think 
it  well  for  a  wife  to  hide  things  from  her  husband  ?  " 

Helen  laughed  merrily. 

"  Assuredly  not,  as  a  rule,"  she  replied.  "  But  suppose 
I  knew  he  would  be  vexed  with  me  if  I  told  him  some 
particular  thing  ?  Suppose  I  know  now  that,  when  I  do 
tell  liim  on  Monday,  he  will  say  to  me,  'Thank  you,  wife. 
I  am  glad  you  kept  that  from  me  till  I  had  done  my 
work,' — what  then?" 


THE  RECTORY.  25 

"  All  riglit  then,''  answered  the  draper. 

"  You  see,  Mr  Drew,  we  think  married  peoi)le  should 
be  so  sure  of  each  other  that  each  should  not  only  be  con- 
tent, but  should  prefer  not  to  know  what  the  other  thinks 
it  better  not  to  tell.  If  my  husband  overheard  any  one 
calling  me  names,  I  don't  think  he  would  tell  me.  He 
knows,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  I  am  not  yet  good  enough  to 
behave  better  to  any  one  for  knov.'ing  that  she  hates  and 
reviles  mc.  It  would  be  but  to  propagate  the  evil,  and 
for  my  part  too,  I  would  rather  not  be  told." 

"  I  quite  understand  you,  ma'am,  answered  the  draper. 

"  I  know  you  do,"  returned  Helen,  with  emphasis, 

Mr.  Drew  blushed  to  the  top  of  his  white  forehead, 
while  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  Avhich  in  its  forms  was 
insignificant,  blossomed  into  a  smile  as  radiant  as  that 
of  an  infant.  He  knew  Mrs.  Wingfold  was  aware  of  the 
fact,  known  only  to  two  or  three  besides  in  the  town,  that 
the  lady,  who  for  the  last  few  months  had  been  lodging  in 
his  house,  was  his  own  wife,  who  had  forsaken  him  twenty 
years  before.  The  man  who  during  that  time  had  passed 
for  her  husband,  had  been  otherwise  dishonest  as  well, 
and  had  fled  the  country  ;  she  and  her  daughter,  brought 
to  absolute  want,  were  received  into  his  house  by  her 
forsaken  husband;  there  they  occupied  the  same  chamber, 
the  mother  ordered  everything,  and  the  daughter  did  not 
know  that  she  paid  for  nothing.  If  the  ways  of  trans- 
gressors are  hard,  those  of  a  righteous  man  are  not  always 
easy.  When  Mr.  Drew  would  now  and  then  stop  sud- 
denly in  the  street,  take  off  his  hat  and  wipe  his  fore- 
head, people  little  thought  the  round  smiling  face  had 
such  a  secret  behind  it.  Had  they  surmised  a  skele- 
ton in  his  house,  they  would  as  little  have  suspected 
it  masked  in  the  handsome,  well-dressed  woman  of  little 
over  forty,  who,  with  her  pretty  daughter  so  tossy  and 
airy,  occupied  his  first  floor,  and  was  supposed  to  pay 
him  handsomely  for  it. 

The  curate  slept  soundly,  and  woke  in  the  morning 
eager  to  utter  what  he  b.aJ. 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE    ROAD    TO    OWT.KIRK. 


AUL  FABER  fared  otherwise.  Hardly  was 
he  in  bed  before  he  was  called  out  of  it 
again.  A  messenger  had  come  from  Mrs. 
Puckridge  to  say  that  Miss  Meredith  was 
worse,  and  if  the  doctor  did  not  start  at 
once,  she  would  be  dead  before  he  reached  Owlkirk.  He 
sent  orders  to  his  groom  to  saddle  Niger  and  bring  him 
round  instantly,  and  hurried  on  his  clothes,  vexed  that  he 
had  taken  Ruber  both  in  the  morning  and  afternoon,  and 
could  not  have  him  now.  But  Niger  was  a  good  horse 
also  :  if  he  was  but  two  thirds  of  Ruber's  size,  he  was  but 
one  third  of  his  age,  and  saw  better  at  night.  On  the 
other  hand  he  was  less  easily  seen,  but  the  midnight  there 
was  so  still  and  deserted,  that  that  was  of  small  conse- 
quence. In  a  few  minutes  they  were  out  together  in  a  lane 
as  dark  as  pilch,  compelled  now  to  keep  to  the  roads,  for 
there  was  not  light  enough  to  see  the  pocket-compass  by 
which  the  surgeon  sometimes  steered  across  country. 

Could  we  learn  what  waking-dreams  haunted  the  boy- 
hood of  a  man,  we  should  have  a  rare  help  towards  un- 
derstanding the  character  he  has  developed.  Those  of 
the  young  Faber  were,  almost  exclusively,  of  playing  the 
;)rince  of  help  and  deliverance  among  women  and  men. 


THE  KOAD  TO  OWLKJRK.  27 

Like  most  boys  that  dream,  he  dreamed  himself  rich  and 
powerful,  but  the  wealth  and  power  were  for  the  good  of 
his  fellow-creatures.  If  it  must  be  confessed  that  he 
lingered  most  over  the  thanks  and  admiration  he  set  to 
haunt  his  dream-steps,  and  hover  about  his  dream  person, 
it  must  be  remembered  that  he  was  the  only  real  person 
in  the  dreams,  and  that  he  regarded  lovingly  the  mere 
shadows  of  his  fellowmen.  His  dreams  were  not  of 
strength  and  destruction,  but  of  influence  and  life.  Even 
his  revenges  never  reached  farther  than  the  making  of  his 
enemies  ashamed. 

It  was  the  spirit  of  helji,  then,  that  had  urged  him  into 
the  profession  he  followed.  He  had  found  mucli  dirt  about 
the  door  of  it,  and  had  not  been  able  to  cross  the  thresh- 
old without  some  cleaving  to  his  garments.  He  is  a 
high-souled  youth  indeed,  in  whom  the  low  regards  and 
corrupt  knowledge  of  his  superiors  will  fail  utterly  of  de- 
grading influence ;  he  must  be  one  stronger  than  Faber 
who  can  listen  to  scoffing  materialism  from  the  lips  of 
authority  and  experience,  and  not  come  to  look  upon 
humanity  and  life  with  a  less  reverent  regard.  What  man 
can  learn  to  look  upon  the  dying  as  so  much  matter  about 
to  be  rekneaded  and  remodelled  into  a  fresh  mass  of 
feverous  joys,  futile  aspirations,  and  stinging  chagrins, 
without  a  self-contempt  from  which  there  is  no  shelter  but 
the  poor  hope  that  we  may  be  a  little  better  than  we  ap- 
pear to  ourselves.  But  Faber  escaped  the  worst.  He 
did  not  learn  to  look  on  humanity  without  respect,  or  to 
meet  the  stare  of  appealing  eyes  from  man  or  animal,  with- 
out genuine  response — without  sympathy.  He  never 
joined  in  any  jest  over  suffering,  not  to  say  betted  on  the 
chance  of  the  man  who  lay  panting  under  the  terrors  of  an 
impending  operation.  Can  one  be  capable  of  such  things, 
and  not  have  sunk  deep  indeed  in  the  putrid  pit  of  de- 
composing humanity?  It  is  true  that  before  he  began  to 
practise,  Faber  had  come  to  regard  man  as  a  body  and 
not  an  embodiment,  the  highest  in  him  as  dependent  on 
nis  physical  organization — as  indeed   but  the  aroma,  as 


28  FAUL  FABER. 

it  were,  of  its  blossom  the  brain,  therefore  subject  to 
all  the  vicissitudes  of  the  human  plant  from  which 
it  rises ;  but  he  had  been  touched  to  issues  too 
fine  to  be  absolutely  interpenetrated  and  enslaved  by 
the  reaction  of  accepted  theories.  His  poetic  nature, 
like  the  indwelling  fire  of  the  world,  was  ever  ready  to 
play  havoc  with  induration  and  constriction,  and  the 
same  moment  when  degrading  influences  ceased  to 
operate,  the  delicacy  of  his  feeling  began  to  revive.  Even 
at  its  lowest,  this  delicacy  preserved  him  from  much  into 
which  vulgar  natuies  plunge;  it  kept  alive  the  memory 
of  a  lovely  mother ;  and  fed  the  flame  of  that  wondering, 
worshipping  reverence  for  women  which  is  the  saviour 
of  men  until  the  Truth  himself  saves  both.  A  few  years 
of  worthy  labour  in  his  profession  had  done  much  to  de- 
velop him,  and  his  character  for  uprightness,  bene- 
volence, and  skill,  with  the  people  of  Glaston  and  its 
neighbourhood,  where  he  had  been  ministering  only 
about  a  }ear,  was  already  of  tlie  highest.  Even  now, 
when,  in  a  fever  of  honesty,  he  declared  there  could  be 
no  God  in  such  an  ill-ordered  world,  so  full  was  his 
heart  of  the  human  half  of  religion,  that  he  could  not 
stand  by  the  bedside  of  dying  man  or  woman,  without 
lamenting  that  there  was  no  consolation — that  stern 
truth  would  allow  him  to  cast  no  feeblest  glamour  of 
hope  upon  the  departing  shadow.  His  was  a  nobler 
nature  than  theirs  who,  believing  no  more  than  he,  are 
satisfied  with  the  assurance  that  at  the  heart  of  the  evils 
of  the  world  lie  laws  unchangeable. 

The  main  weak  point  in  him  was,  that,  while  he  was 
indeed  tender-licarted,  and  did  no  kindnesses  to  be  seen 
of  men,  he  did  them  to  be  seen  of  himself:  he  saw  him 
who  did  them  all  the  time.  The  boy  was  in  the  man ; 
doing  liis  deeds  he  sought,  not  the  approbation  merely, 
but  the  admiration  of  his  own  consciousness.  I  am  afraid 
to  say  this  was  tcroiig,  but  it  was  poor  and  childish,  crippled 
his  walk,  and  obstructed  his  higher  development.  He 
liked  to  kii07C'  himself  a  benefactor.     Such  a  man  may 


THE  ROAD  TO  Oil' LK IK  A'.  29 

well  be  of  noble  nature,  but  he  is  a  mere  dabbler  in  no- 
bility. Faber  delighted  in  the  thought  that,  having  re- 
pudiated all  motives  of  personal  interest  involved  in 
religious  belief,  all  that  regard  for  the  future,  with  its 
rewards  and  punishments,  which,  in  his  ignorance,  genu- 
ine or  wilful,  of  essential  Christianity,  he  took  for  its 
main  potence,  he  ministered  to  his  neighbour,  doing  to 
him  as  he  would  have  him  do  to  himself,  hopeless  of  any 
divine  recognition,  of  any  betterness  beyond  the  grave,  in 
a  fashion  at  least  as  noble  as  that  of  the  most  devoted  of 
Christians.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  ask  if  he  loved 
him  as  well— if  his  care  about  him  was  equal  to  his 
satisfaction  in  himself  Neither  did  he  reflect  that  the 
devotion  he  admired  in  himself  had  been  brought  to  the 
birth  in  him  through  others,  in  whom  it  was  first  gener- 
ated by  a  fast  belief  in  an  unselfish,  loving,  self-devoting 
God.  Had  he  inquired  he  might  have  discovered  that 
this  belief  had  carried  some  men  immeasurably  fiirthcr 
in  the  help  of  their  fellows,  than  he  had  yet  gone.  In- 
deed he  might,  I  think,  have  found  instances  of  men  of 
faith  spending  their  lives  for  their  fellows,  whose  defective 
theology  or  diseased  humility  would  not  allow  them  to 
hope  their  own  salvation.  Inquiry  might  have  given  him 
ground  for  fearing  that  with  the  love  of  the  imagined  God, 
the  love  of  the  indubitable  man  would  decay  and  vanish. 
But  such  OS  Faber  was,  he  was  both  loved  and  honoured 
by  all  whom  he  had  ever  attended ;  and,  with  his 
fine  tastes,  his  genial  nature,  his  quiet  conscience,  his 
good  health,  his  enjoyment  of  life,  his  knowledge  and  love 
of  his  profession,  his  activity,  his  tender  heart — especially 
to  women  and  children,  his  keen  mtellect,  and  his  devising 
though  not  embodying  imagination,  if  any  man  could  get 
on  without  a  God,  Faber  was  that  man.  He  was  now  try- 
ing it,  and  as  yet  the  trial  had  cost  him  no  effort :  he 
seemed  to  himself  to  be  doing  very  well  indeed.  And  why 
should  he  not  do  as  well  as  the  thousands,  who,  counting 
themselves  religious  people,  get  through  the  business  of 
the  hour,  the  day,  the  week,  the  year,  without  one  refer- 


30  I'AVL  FABER. 

ence  in  anything  they  do  or  abstain  from  doing,  to  the 
will  of  God,  or  the  words  of  Christ  ?  If  he  was  more  help- 
ful to  his  fellows  than  they,  he  fared  better  ;  for  actions  in 
themselves  good,  however  imperfect  the  motives  that  give 
rise  to  them,  react  blissfully  upon  character  and  nature. 
It  is  better  to  be  an  atheist  who  does  the  will  of  God, 
than  a  so-called  Christian  who  does  not.  The  atheist 
will  not  be  dismissed  because  he  said  Lord,  Lord,  and 
did  not  obey.  The  thing  that  God  loves  is  the  only 
lovely  thing,  and  he  who  does  it,  does  well,  and  is  upon 
the  way  to  discover  that  he  does  it  very  badly.  When 
he  comes  to  do  it  as  the  will  of  the  perfect  Good,  then  is 
he  on  the  road  to  do  it  perfectly — -that  is,  from  love  of 
its  own  inherent  self-constituted  goodness,  born  in  the 
heart  of  the  Perfect.  The  doing  of  things  from  duty  is 
but  a  stage  on  the  road  to  the  kingdom  of  truth  and 
love.  Not  the  less  must  the  stage  be  journeyed;  every 
l-ath  diverging  from  it  is  "the  tlowery  way  that  leads 
to  the  broad  gate  and  the  great  fire." 

It  was  with  more  than  his  usual  zeal  of  helpfulness 
that  Faber  was  now  riding  towards  Owlkirk,  to  revisit  his 
new  patient.  Could  he  have  mistaken  the  symptoms  of 
her  attack  ? 


CHAPTER  VI. 


^tlE    COTTAGE. 


RS.  PUCKRIDGE  was  anxiously  awaiting 
the  doctor's  arrival.  She  stood  by  the  bed- 
side of  her  lodger,  miserable  in  her  ignorance 
and  consequent  helplessness.  The  lady 
tossed  and  moaned,  but  for  very  pain  could 
neither  toss  nor  moan  much,  and  breathed — panted, 
rather — very  quick.  Her  colour  was  white  more  than 
pale,  and  now  and  then  she  shivered  from  head  to  foot, 
but  her  eyes  burned.  Mrs.  Puckridge  kept  bringing  her 
hot  flannels,  and  stood  talking  between  the  changes. 

"  I  wish  the  doctor  would  come  ! — Them  doctors  ! — 
I  hope  to  goodness  Dr.  Eaber  wasn't  out  when  the  boy 
got  to  Glaston.  Everybody  in  this  mortal  universe  always 
is  out  when  he's  wanted :  that's  my  experience.  You  ain't 
so  old  as  me,  miss.  And  Dr.  Faber,  you  see,  miss,  he  be 
such  a  favourite  as  /un'e  to  go  out  to  his  dinner  not  un- 
frequent.     They  may  have  to  send  miles  to  fetch  him." 

She  talked  in  the  vain  hope  of  distracting  the  poor 
lady's  attention  from  her  suffering. 

It  was  a  little  upstairs  cottage-room,  the  corners  betwixt 
the  ceiling  and  the  walls  cut  off  by  the  slope  of  the  roof 
So  dark  was  the  night,  that,  when  Mrs.  Puckridge  carried 
the  candle  out  of  the  room,  the  unshaded  dormer  window 


32  PAUL  FADER. 

did  not  show  itself  even  by  a  bluish  glimmer.  But  light 
and  dark  were  alike  to  her  who  lay  in  the  little  tent-bed, 
in  the  midst  of  whose  white  curtains,  white  coverlid,  and 
white  pillows,  her  large  eyes,  black  as  human  eyes  could 
ever  be,  were  like  wells  of  darkness  throwing  out  flashes 
of  strange  light.  Her  hair  too  was  dark,  brown-black, 
of  great  plenty,  and  so  fine  that  it  seemed  to  go  off  in  a 
mist  on  the  whiteness.  It  had  been  her  custom  to  throw 
it  over  the  back  of  her  bed,  but  in  this  old-fashioned  one 
that  was  impossible,  and  it  lay,  in  loveliest  confusion, 
scattered  here  and  there  over  pillow  and  coverlid,  as  if  the 
wind  had  been  tossing  it  all  ".  long  night  at  his  will. 
Some  of  it  had  strayed  more  than  half  way  to  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  Her  face,  distorted  almost  though  it  was  with 
distress,  showed  yet  a  regularity  of  feature  rarely  to  be 
seen  in  combination  with  such  evident  power  of  ex- 
pression. Suffering  had  not  yet  flattened  the  delicate 
roundness  of  her  cheek,  or  sharpened  the  angles  of  her 
chin.  In  her  whiteness,  and  her  constrained,  pang- 
thwarted  motions  from  side  to  side,  she  looked  like  a 
form  of  marble  in  the  agonies  of  coming  to  life  at  the 
prayer  of  some  Pygmalion.  In  throwing  out  her  arms, 
she  had  flung  back  the  bedclothes,  and  her  daintily  em- 
broidered nightgown  revealed  a  rather  large,  grand  throat, 
of  the  same  rare  whiteness.  Her  hands  were  perfect — 
every  finger  and  every  nail — 

Those  fine!  nimble  brethren  small, 
Armed  with  pearl-shell  hehnets  all. 

When  Mrs.  Puckridge  came  into  the  room,  she  always 
set  her  candle  on  the  sill  of  the  storm-window :  it  was 
there,  happily,  when  the  doctor  drew  near  the  village,  and 
it  guided  him  to  the  cottage-gate.  He  fastened  Niger  to 
it,  crossed  the  little  garden,  gently  lifted  the  door-latch, 
and  ascended  the  stair.  He  found  the  door  of  the 
chamber  open,  signed  to  Mrs.  Puckridge  to  be  still,  softly 

iy.'j//«(Z  Sylvester.  I  suspect  the  word  ought  to  be  five,  not 
fine,  as  my  copy  (lOl.^)  has  it. 


7//A  COTTAGE.  33 

approached  the  bed,  and  stood  gazing  in  silence  on  the 
sufferer,  who  lay  at  the  moment  apparently  unconscious. 
But  suddenly,  as  if  she  had  become  aware  of  a  presence, 
she  flashed  wide  her  great  eyes,  and  the  pitiful  entreaty 
that  came  into  them  when  she  saw  him,  went  straight  to 
his  heart.  Faber  felt  more  for  the  sufferings  of  some  of 
the  lower  animals  than  for  certain  of  his  patients ;  but 
children  and  women  he  would  serve  like  a  slave.  The 
dumb  appeal  of  hep  eyes  almost  unmanned  him. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  ill,"  he  said,  as  he  took 
her  wrist.     "You  are  in  pain:  where?" 

Her  other  hand  moved  towards  her  side  in  reply. 
Every  thing  indicated  pleurisy — such  that  there  was  no 
longer  room  for  gentle  measures.  She  must  be  relieved 
at  once :  he  must  open  a  vein.  In  the  changed  practice 
of  later  days,  it  had  seldom  fallen  to  the  lot  of  Faber  to 
perform  the  very  simple  operation  of  venesection,  but 
that  had  little  to  do  with  the  trembling  of  the  hands 
which  annoyed  him  with  himself,  when  he  proceeded  to 
undo  a  sleeve  of  his  patient's  nightdress.  Finding  no 
button,  he  took  a  pair  of  scissors  from  his  pocket,  cut 
ruthlessly  through  linen  and  lace,  and  rolled  back  the 
sleeve.  It  disclosed  an  arm  the  sight  of  which  would 
have  made  a  sculptor  rejoice  as  over  some  marble  of  old 
Greece.  I  cannot  describe  it,  and  if  I  could,  for  very 
love  and  reverence  I  would  rather  let  it  alone.  Faber 
felt  his  heart  rise  in  his  throat  at  the  necessity  of  breaking 
that  exquisite  surface  with  even  such  an  insignificant 
breach  and  blemish  as  the  shining  steel  betwixt  his 
forefinger  and  thumb  must  occasion.  But  a  slight  tremble 
of  the  hand  he  held  acknowledged  the  intruding  sharp- 
ness, and  then  the  red  parabola  rose  from  the  golden 
bowl.  He  stroked  the  lovely  arm  to  help  its  flow,  and 
soon  the  girl  once  more  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at 
him.  Already  her  breathing  was  easier.  But  presently 
her  eyes  began  to  glaze  with  approaching  fnintness,  and 
he  put  his  thumb  on  the  wound.  She  smiled  and 
closed  them,     He  bound  up  her  arm,  laid  it  gently  by 


34  PAUL  fABEk. 

her  side,  gave  her  something  to  drink,  and  sat  down. 
He  sat  until  he  saw  her  sunk  in  a  quiet,  gentle  sleep  : 
ease  had  dethroned  pain,  and  order  had  begun  to  dawn 
out  of  threatened  chaos. 

"Thank  God!"'  lie  said,  involuntarily,  and  stood  up: 
what  all  that  meant,  God  only  knows. 

After  various  directions  to  Mrs.  Puckridge,  to  which 
she  seemed  to  attend,  but  which,  being  as  simple  as 
necessary,  I  fear  she  forgot  the  moment  they  were  uttered, 
the  doctor  mounted,  and  rode  away.  The  darkness  was 
gone,  for  the  moon  was  rising,  but  when  the  road  com- 
pelled him  to  face  her,  she  blinded  him  nearly  as  much. 
Slowly  she  rose  through  a  sky  freckled  with  wavelets  of 
cloud,  and  as  she  crept  up  amongst  them  she  brought 
them  all  out,  in  bluish,  pearly,  and  opaline  gray.  Then, 
suddenly  almost,  as  it  seemed,  she  left  them,  and  walked 
up  aloft,  drawing  a  thin  veil  around  her  as  she  ascended. 
All  was  so  soft,  so  sleepy,  so  vague,  it  seemed  to  Paul 
as  he  rode  slowly  along,  himself  almost  asleep,  as  if  the 
Night  had  lost  the  blood  he  had  caused  to  flow,  and 
the  sweet  exhaustion  that  followed  had  from  the  lady's 
brain  wandered  out  over  Nature  herself,  as  she  sank,  a 
lovelier  Katadyomene,  into  the  hushed  sea  of  pain-won 
repose. 

Was  he  in  love  with  her?  I  do  not  know.  I  could 
tell,  if  I  kncAV  what  being  in  love  is.  I  think  no  two 
loves  were  ever  the  same  since  the  creation  of  the  world. 
I  know  that  something  had  i)assed  from  her  eyes  to  his — • 
but  what  ?  He  may  have  been  in  love  with  her  already  ; 
but  ere  long  my  reader  may  be  more  sure  than  I  that  he 
was  not.  The  maker  of  men  alone  understands  his  awful 
mystery  between  the  man  and  the  woman.  But  without  it, 
frightful  indeed  as  are  some  of  its  results,  assuredly  the 
world  he  has  made  would  burst  its  binding  rings  and  fly 
asunder  in  shards,  leaving  his  spirit  nothing  to  enter,  no 
time  to  work  his  lovely  will. 

It  must  be  to  any  man  a  terrible  thing  to  find  himself 
in  wild  pain,  with  no  God  of  whom  to  entreat  that  his  soul 


THE  COTTAGE.  35 

may  not  faint  within  him  ;  but,  to  a  man  who  can  think 
as  well  as  feel,  it  were  a  more  terrible  thin^  still,  to  find 
himself  afloat  on  the  tide  of  a  lovely  passion,  with  no  God 
to  whom  to  cry,  accountable  to  himself  for  that  which  he 
has  made,  ^^'ill  any  man  who  has  ever  cast  more  than  a 
glance  into  the  mysteries  of  his  being,  dare  think  himself 
sufficient  to  the  ruling  of  his  nature  ?  And  if  he  rule  it 
not,  what  shall  he  be  but  the  sport  of  the  demons  that 
will  ride  its  tempests,  that  will  rouse  and  torment  its  ocean  ? 
What  help  then  is  there  ?  What  high-hearted  man  would 
consent  to  be  possessed  and  sweetly  ruled  by  the 
loveliest  of  angels  ?  Truly  it  were  but  a  daintier  madness. 
Come  thou,  holy  Love,  father  of  my  spirit,  nearer  to  the 
unknown  deeper  me  than  my  consciousness  is  to  its 
known  self,  possess  me  utterly,  for  thou  art  more  me  than 
I  am  myself  Rule  thou.  Then  first  I  rule.  Shadow 
me  from  the  too  radiant  splendours  of  thy  own  creative 
thought.  Folded  in  thy  calm,  I  shall  love,  and  not  die. 
And  ye,  women,  be  the  daughters  of  Him  from  whose 
heart  came  your  mothers ;  be  the  saviours  of  men,  and 
neither  their  torment  nor  their  prey  I 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE    PULPIT. 


EFORE  morning  it  rained  hard  again;  but 
it  cleared  at  sunrise,  and  the  first  day  of  the 
week  found  the  world  new-washed.  Glas- 
ton  slept  longer  than  usual,  however,  for 
all  the  shine,  and  in  the  mounting  sun 
looked  dead  and  deserted.  There  were  no  gay  shop- 
windows  to  reflect  his  beams,  or  fill  them  with  rain- 
bow colours.  There  were  no  carriages  or  carts,  and 
only,  for  a  few  moments,  one  rider.  That  was  Paul 
Faber  again,  on  Ruber  now,  aglow  in  the  morning. 
There  were  no  children  playing  yet  about  the  streets  or 
lanes  ;  but  the  cries  of  some  came  at  intervals  from 
unseen  chambers,  as  the  Sunday  soap  stung  their  eyes, 
or  the  Sunday  comb  tore  their  matted  locks. 

As  Faber  rode  out  of  his  stable-yard,  Wingfold  took 
his  hat  from  its  peg,  to  walk  through  his  churchyard. 
;•  He  lived  almost  in  the  churchyard,  for,  happily,  since 
his  marriage  the  rectory  had  lost  its  tenants,  and  Mr. 
Bevis  had  allowed  him  to  occupy  it,  in  lieu  of  part  of  his 
salary.  It  was  not  yet  church-time  by  hours,  but  he  had 
a  custom  of  going  every  Sunday  morning,  in  the  fine 
weather  quite  early,  to  sit  for  an  hour  or  two  alone  in 
the  pulpit,  amidst  the  absolute  solitude  and  silence  of 


THE  PULPIT.  37 

the  great  church.  It  was  a  door,  he  said,  through 
which  a  man  who  could  not  go  to  Horeb,  might  enter 
and  find  the  power  that  dwells  on  mountain-tops  and  in 
desert  places. 

He  went  slowly  through  the  churchyard,  breathing  deep 
breaths  of  the  delicious  si)ring-morning  air.  Rain- 
drops were  sparkling  all  over  the  grassy  graves,  and  in 
the  hollows  of  the  stones  they  had  gathered  in  pools. 
The  eyes  of  the  death-heads  were  full  of  water,  as  if 
weeping  at  the  defeat  of  their  master.  Every  now  and 
then  a  soft  little  wind  awoke,  like  a  throb  of  the  spirit  of 
life,  and  shook  together  the  scattered  drops  upon  the 
trees,  and  then  down  came  diamond  showers  on  the  grass 
and  daisies  of  the  mounds,  and  fed  the  green  moss  in  the 
letters  of  the  epitaphs.  Over  all  the  sun  was  shining,  as 
if  everywhere  and  for  ever  spring  was  the  order  of  things. 
And  is  it  not  so  ?  Is  not  the  idea  of  the  creation  an 
eternal  spring  ever  trembling  on  the  verge  of  summer  ? 
It  seemed  so  to  the  curate,  who  was  not  given  to  sad, 
still  less  to  sentimental  moralizing  over  the  graves.  From 
such  moods  his  heart  recoiled.  To  him  they  were  weak 
and  mawkish,  and  in  him  they  would  have  been  treacher- 
ous. No  grave  was  to  him  the  place  where  a  friend  was 
lying  ;  it  was  but  a  cenotaph — the  place  where  the  Lord 
had  lain. 

"  Let  those  possessed  with  demons  haunt  the  tombs," 
he  said,  as  he  sat  down  in  the  pulpit ;  "  for  me,  I  will 
turn  my  back  upon  them  with  the  risen  Christ.  Yes, 
friend,  I  hear  you  !  I  know  what  you  say  !  You  have 
more  affection  than  I?  you  cannot  forsake  the  last  resting- 
place  of  the  beloved?  Well,  you  may  have  more  feeling 
than  I  ;  there  is  no  gauge  by  which  I  can  tell,  and  if 
there  were,  it  would  be  useless  :  we  are  as  God  made  us. 
— No,  I  will  not  say  that ;  I  will  say  rather,  I  am  as  God 
is  making  me,  and  I  shall  one  day  be  as  he  has  made 
me.  Meantime  I  know  that  he  will  have  me  love  my 
enemy  tenfold  more  than  now  I  love  my  friend.  Thou 
believest  that  the  malefictor — ah,  there  was  faith  now  ! 


38  PAUL  FABER. 

Of  two  men  dying  together  in  agony  and  shame,  the  one 
beseeches  of  the  other  the  grace  of  a  king !  Thou 
beUevest,  I  say — at  least  thou  professest  to  beUeve  that 
the  malefactor  was  that  very  day  with  Jesus  in  Paradise, 
and  yet  thou  broodest  over  thy  friend's  grave,  gathering 
thy  thoughts  about  the  pitiful  garment  he  left  behind 
him,  and  letting  himself  drift  away  into  the  unknown, 
forsaken  of  all  but  thy  vaguest,  most  shapeless  thinkings  ! 
Tell  me  not  thou  fearest  to  enter  there  whence  has  issued 
ro  revealing.  It  is  God  who  gives  thee  thy  mirror  of 
imagination,  and  if  thou  keep  it  clean,  it  will  give  thee 
back  no  shadow  but  of  the  truth.  Never  a  cry  of  love 
went  forth  from  human  heart  but  it  found  some  heavenly 
chord  to  fold  it  in.  Be  sure  thy  friend  inhabits  a  day 
not  out  of  harmony  with  this  morning  of  earthly  spring, 
with  this  sunlight,  those  rain-drops,  that  sweet  wind  that 
flows  so  softly  over  his  grave." 

It  was  the  first  sprouting  of  a  germon.  He  covered  it 
up  and  left  it :  he  had  something  else  to  talk  to  his 
people  about  this  morning. 

While  he  sat  thus  in  the  pulpit,  his  wife  was  praying  for 
him  ere  she  rose.  She  had  not  learned  to  love  him  in 
the  vestibule  of  society,  that  court  of  the  Gentiles,  but 
in  the  chamber  of  torture  and  the  clouded  adytum  of  her 
own  spiritual  temple.  For  there  a  dark  vapour  had  hid 
the  deity  enthroned,  until  the  words  of  his  servant  melted 
the  gloom.  Then  she  saw  that  what  she  had  taken  for  her 
own  innermost  chamber  of  awful  void,  was  the  dwelling- 
place  of  the  most  high,  most  lovely,  only  One,  and 
through  its  windows  she  beheld  a  cosmos  dawning  out  of 
chaos.  Therefore  the  wife  walked  beside  the  husband 
in  the  strength  of  a  common  faith  in  absolute  Good  ;  and 
not  seldom  did  the  fire  which  the  torch  of  his  prophecy 
had  kindled  upon  her  altar,  kindle  again  that  torch,  when 
some  bitter  wind  of  evil  words,  or  mephitis  of  human 
perversity,  or  thunder-rain  of  foiled  charity,  had  extin- 
guished it.  She  loved  every  hair  upon  his  head,  but 
loved  his  well-being  infinitely  more  than  his  mortal  life, 


THE  PULPir.  39 

A  wrinkle  on  his  forehead  would  cause  her  a  pang,  yet 
would  she  a  thousand  times  rather  have  seen  him  dead 
than  known  him  guilty  of  one  of  many  things  done  openly 
by  not  a  few  of  his  profession. 

And  now,  as  one  sometimes  wonders  what  he  shall 
dream  to-night,  she  sat  wondering  what  new  thing,  or 
what  old  thing  fresher  and  more  alive  than  the  new, 
would  this  day  flow  from  his  heart  into  hers.  The 
following  is  the  substance  of  what,  a  few  hours  after,  she 
did  hear  from  him.  His  rector,  sitting  between  Mrs 
Bevis  and  Mrs.  Ramshorn,  heard  it  also.  The  radiance  of 
truth  shone  from  Wingfold's  face  as  he  spoke,  and  those  of 
the  congregation  who  turned  away  from  his  words,  were 
those  whose  lives  ran  counter  to  the  spirit  of  them.  What- 
ever he  uttered  grew  out  of  a  whole  world  of  thought, 
but  it  grew  before  them — that  is,  he  always  thought  afresh 
in  the  presence  of  the  people,  and  spoke  extempore. 

"  '  F^  cannot  serve  God  and  nianiinon.'' 

"  Who  said  this  ?  The  Lord  by  whose  name  ye  are 
called,  in  whose  name  this  house  was  built,  and  who  will 
at  last  judge  every  one  of  us.  And  yet  how  many  of 
you  are,  and  have  been  for  years,  trying  your  very  hardest 
to  do  the  thing  your  master  tells  you  is  impossible  ! 
Thou  man  !  Thou  woman  !  1  appeal  to  thine  own  con- 
science whether  thou  art  not  striving  to  serve  God  and 
mammon. 

"  But  stay  !  am  I  right  ? — It  cannot  be.  For  surely  if 
a  man  strove  hard  to  serve  God  and  mammon,  he 
would  presently  discover  the  thing  was  impossible.  It  is 
not  easy  to  serve  God,  and  it  is  easy  to  serve  mammon  ; 
if  one  strove  to  serve  God,  the  hard  thing,  along  with 
serving  mammon,  the  easy  thing,  the  incompatibility  of 
the  two  endeavours  must  appear.  The  fact  is  there  is  no 
strife  in  you.  ^Vith  ease  you  serve  mammon  every  day 
and  hour  of  your  lives,  and  for  God,  you  do  not  even  ask 
yourselves  the  question  whether  you  are  serving  him  or 
no.     Yet  some  of  you  are  at  this  very  moment  indignant 


40  PAUL  FABER. 

that  I  call  you  servers  of  mammon.  Those  of  you  who 
know  tliat  God  knows  you  are  his  servants,  know  also 
that  I  do  not  mean  you  ;  therefore,  those  who  are  indig- 
nant at  being  called  the  servants  of  mammon,  are  so 
because  they  are  indeed  such.  As  I  say  these  words,  I 
do  not  lift  my  eyes,  not  that  I  am  afraid  to  look  you  in 
tlie  face,  as  uttering  an  offensive  thing,  but  that  I  would 
have  your  own  souls  your  accusers. 

"  Let  us  consider  for  a  moment  the  God  you  do  not 
serve,  and  then  for  a  moment  the  mammon  you  do  serve. 
The  God  you  do  not  serve  is  the  Father  of  Lights,  the 
source  of  love,  the  maker  of  man  and  woman,  the  head 
of  the  great  family,  the  Father  of  fatherhood  and  mother- 
hood ;  the  life -giver  who  would  die  to  preserve  his 
children,  but  would  rather  slay  them  than  they  should  live 
the  servants  of  evil ;  the  God  who  can  neither  think  nor 
do  nor  endure  anything  mean  or  unfair ;  the  God  of 
poetry  and  music  and  every  marvel ;  the  God  of  the 
mountain  tops,  and  the  rivers  that  run  from  the  snows 
of  death,  to  make  the  earth  joyous  with  life  ;  the  God  of 
the  valley  and  the  wheat-field,  the  God  who  has  set  love 
betwixt  youth  and  maiden  ;  the  God  and  Father  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  the  perfect ;  the  God  whom  Christ 
knew,  with  whom  Christ  was  satisfied,  of  whom  he  de- 
clared that  to  know  him  was  eternal  life.  The  mammon 
you  do  serve  is  not  a  mere  negation,  but  a  positive  Death. 
His  temple  is  a  darkness,  a  black  hollow,  ever  hungr}',  in 
the  heart  of  man,  who  tumbles  into  it  everything  that 
should  make  life  noble  and  lovely.  To  all  who  serve 
him  he  makes  it  seem  that  his  alone  is  the  reasonable 
service.  His  wages  are  death,  but  he  calls  them  life,  and 
they  believe  him.  I  will  tell  you  some  of  the  marks  of 
his  service — a  few  of  the  badges  of  his  household — for 
he  has  no  visible  temple  ;  no  man  bends  the  knee  to 
him ;  it  is  only  his  soul,  his  manhood,  that  the  worshipper 
casts  in  the  dust  before  him.  If  a  man  talks  of  the 
main  chance,  meaning  thereby  that  of  making  money,  or 
of  number  one,  meaning  thereby  self,  except  indeed  he 


THE  FULPir.  41 

honestly  jest,  he  is  a  servant  of  mammon.  If,  when 
thou  makest  a  bargain,  thou  thinkest  only  of  thyself  and 
thy  gain,  thou  art  a  servant  of  mammon.  The  eager 
looks  of  those  that  would  get  money,  the  troubled  looks 
of  those  that  have  lost  it,  worst  of  all  the  gloating  looks 
of  them  that  have  it,— these  are  sure  signs  of  the  service 
of  mammon.  If  in  the  church  thou  sayest  to  the  rich 
man,  '  Sit  here  in  a  good  place,'  and  to  the  poor  man, 
'Stand  there,'  thou  art  a  mammon-server.  If  thou 
favourest  the  company  of  those  whom  men  call  well-to-do, 
when  they  are  only  well-to-eat,  or  well-to-drink,  or  well 
to-show,  and  declinest  that  of  the  simple  and  the  meek, 
then  in  thy  deepest  consciousness  know  that  thou  servest 
mammon  and  not  God.  If  thy  hope  of  well-being  in 
time  to  come,  rests  upon  thy  houses,  or  lands,  or  business, 
or  money  in  store,  and  not  upon  the  living  God,  be  thou 
friendly  and  kind  with  the  overflowings  of  thy  posses- 
sions, or  a  churl  whom  no  man  loves,  thou  art  equally  a 
server  of  mammon.  If  the  loss  of  thy  goods  would  take 
from  thee  the  joy  of  thy  life  ;  if  it  would  tear  thy  heart 
that  the  men  thou  hadst  feasted  should  hold  forth  to  thee 
the  two  fingers  instead  of  the  whole  hand ;  nay,  if  thy 
thought  of  to-morrow  makes  thee  quail  before  the  duty 
of  to-day,  if  thou  broodest  over  the  evil  that  is  not 
come,  and  turnest  from  the  God  who  is  with  thee  in 
the  life  of  the  hour,  thou  servest  mammon ;  he  holds 
thee  in  his  chain;  thou  art  his  ape,  whom  he  leads 
about  the  world  for  the  mockery  of  his  fellow-devils. 
If  with  thy  w^ord,  yea,  even  with  thy  judgment,  thou  con- 
fessest  that  God  is  the  only  good,  yet  livest  as  if  he  had 
sent  thee  into  the  world  to  make  thyself  rich  before  thou 
die  ;  if  itwill  add  one  feeblest  pang  to  the  pains  of  thy  death, 
to  think  that  thou  must  leave  thy  fair  house,  thy  ancestral 
trees,  thy  horses,  thy  shop,  thy  books,  behind  thee,  then 
art  thou  a  servant  of  mammon,  and  far  truer  to  thy 
master  than  he  will  prove  to  thee.  Ah,  slave  !  the 
moment  the  breath  is  out  of  thy  body,  lo,  he  has  already 
deserted  thee  !  and  of  all  in  which  thou  didst  rejoice,  all 


42  PAUL  FABER. 

that  gave  thee  such  power  over  thy  fellows,  there  is  not 
left  so  much  as  a  spike  of  thistle-down  for  the  wind  tl 
waft  from  thy  sight.  For  all  thou  hast  had,  there  is 
nothing  to  show.  ^Miere  is  the  friendship  in  which 
thou  mightst  have  invested  thy  money,  in  place  of  bury- 
ing it  in  the  maw  of  mammon  ?  Troops  of  the  dead 
might  now  be  coming  to  greet  thee  with  love  and  service, 
hadst  thou  made  thee  friends  with  thy  money  ;  but,  alas  ! 
to  thee  it  was  not  money,  but  mammon,  for  thou  didst 
love  it — not  for  the  righteousness  and  salvation  thou  by 
its  means  mightst  work  in  the  earth,  but  for  the  honour  it 
brought  thee  among  men,  for  the  pleasures  and  immuni- 
ties it  purchased.  Some  of  you  are  saying  in  your 
hearts,  '  Preach  to  thyself,  and  practise  thine  own  preach- 
ing ; ' — and  you  say  well.  And  so  I  mean  to  do,  lest 
having  preached  to  others  I  should  be  myself  a  cast-away 
— drowned  with  some  of  you  in  the  same  pond  of 
filth.  God  has  put  money  in  my  power,  through  the 
gift  of  one  whom  you  know.  I  shall  endeavour  to  be  a 
faithful  steward  of  that  which  God  through  her  has  com- 
mitted to  me  in  trust.  Hear  me,  friends — to  none  of  you 
am  I  the  less  a  friend  that  I  tell  you  truths  you  would 
hide  from  your  own  souls  :  money  is  not  mammon  ;  it  is 
God's  invention  ;  it  is  good  and  the  gift  of  God.  But 
for  money  and  the  need  of  it,  there  would  not  be  half  the 
friendship  in  the  world.  It  is  powerful  for  good  when 
divinely  used.  Give  it  plenty  of  air,  and  it  is  sweet  as 
the  hawthorn  ;  shut  it  up,  and  it  cankers  and  breeds 
worms.  Like  all  the  best  gifts  of  God,  like  the  air  and 
the  water,  it  must  have  motion  and  change  and  shakings 
asunder ;  like  the  earth  itself,  like  the  heart  and  mind  of 
man,  it  must  be  broken  and  turned,  not  heaped  togetherand 
neglected.  It  is  an  angel  of  mere)',  whose  wings  are  full 
of  balm  and  dews  and  refreshings  ;  but  when  you  lay 
hold  of  him,  pluck  his  pinions,  pen  him  in  a  yard,  and 
fall  down  and  worship  him—  then,  with  the  blessed  venge- 
ance of  his  master,  he  deals  plague  and  confusion  and 
terror,  to  stav  the  idolatry.     If  I  misuse  or  waste  or  hoard 


THE  PL-LPIT.  43 

the  divine  thing,  I  pray  my  Master  to  see  to  it — my  God 
to  punish  me.  Any  fire  rather  than  be  given  over  to  the 
mean  idol !  And  now  I  will  make  an  offer  to  my  towns- 
folk in  the  face  of  this  congregation — that,  whoever  will, 
at  the  end  of  three  years,  bring  me  his  books,  to  him 
also  will  I  lay  open  mine,  that  he  may  see  how  I  have 
sought  to  make  friends  of  the  mammon  of  unrighteous- 
ness. Of  the  mammon-server  I  expect  to  be  judged 
according  to  the  light  that  is  in  him,  and  that  light  I 
know  to  be  darkness. 

"  Friend,  be  not  a  slave.  Be  wary.  Look  not  on  the 
gold  when  it  is  yellow  in  thy  purse.  Hoard  not.  In 
God's  nam.e,  spend — spend  on.  Take  heed  how  thou 
spendest,  but  take  heed  that  thou  spend.  Be  thou  as  the 
sun  in  heaven  ;  let  thy  gold  be  thy  rays,  thy  angels  of 
love  and  life  and  deliverance.  Be  thou  a  candle  of  the 
Lord  to  spread  his  light  through  the  world.  If  hitherto, 
in  any  fashion  of  faithlessness,  thou  hast  radiated  darkness 
into  the  universe,  humble  thyself,  and  arise  and  shine. 

"But  if  thou  art  poor,  then  look  not  on  thy  purse  when 
it  is  empty.  He  who  desires  more  than  God  wills  him  to 
have,  he  also  is  a  servant  of  mammon,  for  he  trusts  in 
what  God  has  made,  and  not  in  God  himself.  He  who 
laments  vrhat  God  has  taken  from  him,  he  is  a  servant  of 
mammon.  He  who  for  care  cannot  pray,  is  a  servant  of 
mammon.  There  are  men  in  this  town  who  love  and 
trust  their  horses  more  than  the  God  that  made  them 
and  their  horses  too.  None  the  less  confidently  will 
they  give  judgment  on  the  doctrine  of  God.  But  the 
opinion  of  no  man  who  does  not  render  back  his  soul 
to  the  living  God  and  live  in  him,  is,  in  religion,  worth 
the  splinter  of  a  straw.  Friends,  cast  your  idol  into 
the  furnace  ;  melt  your  mammon  down,  coin  him  up, 
make  God's  money  of  him,  and  send  him  coursing. 
Make  of  him  cups  to  carry  the  gift  of  God,  the  water  of 
life,  through  the  world — in  lovely  justice  to  the  opi)ressed, 
in  healthful  labour  to  them  whom  no  man  hath  hired,  in 
rest  to  the  weary  who  have  borne  the  burden  and  heat  of 


44  PAUL  FABER. 

tlic  day,  in  joy  to  the  heavy-hearted,  in  laughter  to  the 
dull-spirited.  Let  them  all  be  glad  with  reason,  and 
merry  without  revel.  Ah  !  what  gifts  in  music,  in  the 
drama,  in  the  tale,  in  the  picture,  in  the  spectacle,  in 
books  and  models,  in  flowers  and  friendly  feasting,  what 
true  gifts  might  not  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness, 
changed  back  into  the  money  of  God,  give  to  men  and 
women,  bone  of  our  bone,  and  flesh  of  our  flesh  !  How 
would  you  not  spend  your  money  for  the  Lord,  if  he 
needed  it  at  your  hand  !  He  does  need  it ;  for  he  that 
spends  it  upon  the  least  of  his  fellows,  spends  it  upon 
his  l,ord.  To  hold  fast  upon  God  with  one  hand,  and 
open  wide  the  other  to  your  neighbour — that  is  religion  ; 
that  is  the  law  and  the  prophets,  and  the  true  way  to  all 
better  things  that  are  yet  to  come. — Lord,  defend  us  from 
ALammon.  Hold  thy  temple  against  his  foul  invasion. 
Purify  our  money  with  thy  air  and  thy  sun,  that  it  may 
be  our  slave,  and  thou  our  master.     Amen." 

Tlie  moment  his  sermon  was  ended,  the  curate  always 
set  himself  to  forget  it.  This  for  three  reasons  :  first,  he 
was  so  dissatisfied  with  it,  that  to  think  of  it  was  painful — 
and  the  more,  that  many  things  he  might  have  said,  and 
many  better  ways  of  saying  what  he  had  said,  would  con- 
stantly present  themselves.  Second,  it  was  useless  to 
brood  over  what  could  not  be  bettered ;  and,  third,  it  was 
hurtful,  inasmuch  as  it  prevented  the  growth  of  new,  hope- 
ful, invigorating  thought,  and  took  from  his  strength,  and 
the  quality  of  his  following  endeavour.  A  man's  labours 
must  pass  like  the  sunrises  and  sunsets  of  the  world.  The 
next  thing,  not  the  last,  must  be  his  care.  When  hereached 
home,  he  would  therefore  use  means  to  this  end  of  diver- 
sion, and  not  unfrecjuently  would  write  verses.  Here  are 
those  he  wrote  that  afternoon. 

LET  YOUR  LIGHT  SO  SHINE. 
Sometimes,  O  Lord,  thou  lij^litcst  in  my  head 

A  lamp  that  well  mif,'ht  Pharos  all  the  lands  ; 
Anon  the  lii^ht  will  neither  burn  nor  spread 

Shrouded  in  danger  gray  the  beacon  stands. 


THE  PULPIT.  45 

A  Pharos?     Oh,  dull  brain  !     Oh  poor  quenched  lairp, 

Under  a  bushel,  with  an  earthy  smell  ! 
Mouldering  it  lies,  in  rust  and  eating  damp, 

While  the  slow  oil  keeps  oozing  from  its  cell  ! 

For  me  it  were  enough  to  be  a  flower 

Knowing  its  root  in  thee  was  somewhere  hid — 

To  blossom  at  the  far  appointed  hour, 

And  fold  in  sleep  when  thou,  my  Nature,  bid. 

But  hear  my  brethren  crying  in  the  dark  ! 

Light  up  my  lamp  that  it  may  shine  abroad, 
xaiii  would  I  cry — See,  brothers  !  sisters,  mark  ! 

This  is  the  shining  of  light's  father,  (Jod. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


THE  MANOR  HOUSE  DINING-ROOM. 


^?^^HE    rector    never    lock    his    eyes    off    the 

^^     ])reacher,  but  the  preacher  never  saw  him. 

that   he    dared    not    let 


The    reason    was 

his  eyes  wander  in  the  direction  of  Mrs. 
Ramshorn  ;  he  was  not  yet  so  near  per- 
fection but  that  the  sight  of  her  supercihous,  unbeheving 
face,  was  a  reviving  cordial  to  the  old  Adam,  whom  he 
was  so  anxious  to  poison  with  love  and  prayer.  Church 
over,  the  rector  walked  in  silence,  between  the  two  ladies, 
to  the  Manor  House.  He  courted  no  greetings  from  the 
sheep  of  his  neglected  flock  as  he  went,  and  returned 
those  ofiered  with  a  constrained  solemnity.  The  moment 
they  stood  in  the  hall  together,  and  before  the  servant 
who  had  opened  the  door  to  them  had  quite  disappeared, 
Mrs.  Ramshorn,  to  the  indignant  consternation  of  Mrs. 
Bevis,  who  was  utterly  forgotten  by  both  in  the  colloquy 
that  ensued,  turned  sharp  on  the  rector,  and  said, 

"  There  !  what  do  you  say  to  your  curate  now?  " 

"  He  IS  enough  to  set  the  whole  parish  by  the  ears," 
he  ansv/ered. 

"  I  told  you  so,  Mr.  Bevis  1 " 

"  Only  it  does  not  follow  that  therefore  he  is  in  the 
wrong.  Our  Lord  himself  came  not  to  send  peace  on 
earth  but  a  sword." 


Tllk  MANOR  HOUSE  DINING-ROOM.  47 

"  Irreverence  ill  becomes  a  beneficed  clergyman,  Mr. 
Bevis,"  said  Mrs.  Ramshorn — who  very  consistently  re- 
garded any  practical  reference  to  our  Lord  as  irrelevant, 
thence  naturally  as  irreverent. 

"And,  by  Jove  !"  added  the  rector,  heedless  of  her 
remark,  and  tumbling  back  into  an  old  college-habit,  "  I 
fear  he  is  in  the  right ;  and  if  he  is,  it  will  go  hard  with 
you  and  me  at  the  last  day,  Mrs.  Ramshorn." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  going  to  let  that  man 
turn  everything  topsy-turvy,  and  the  congregation  out  of 
the  church,  John  lievis  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  congregation  in  it  before,  Mrs. 
Ramshorn." 

"It's  little  better  than  a  low-bred  conventicle  now,  and 
what  it  will  come  to,  if  things  go  on  like  this,  God 
knows." 

"  That  ought  to  be  a  comfort,"  said  the  rector.  "  But 
I  hardly  know  yet  where  I  am.  The  fellow  has  knocked 
the  wind  out  of  me  with  his  personalities,  and  I  haven't 
got  my  breath  yet.      Have  you  a  bottle  of  sherry  open  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ramshorn  led  the  way  to  the  dining-room,  where 
the  early  Sunday  dinner  was  already  laid,  and  the  de- 
canters stood  on  the  sideboard.  The  rector  poured  him- 
self out  a  large  glass  of  sherry,  and  drank  it  off  in  three 
mouthfuls. 

''  Such  buffoonery  !  such  coarseness  !  such  vulgarity  ! 
such  indelicacy  !"  cried  Mrs.  Ramshorn,  while  the  parson 
was  still  occupied  with  his  sherry.  "  Not  content  with 
talking  about  himself  in  the  pulpit,  he  must  even  talk 
about  his  wife  !  What's  he  or  his  wife  in  the  house  of 
God  ?  When  his  gown  is  on,  a  clergyman  is  neither  Mr. 
This  nor  Mr.  That  any  longer,  but  a  priest  of  the  church 
of  England,  as  by  law  established.  My  poor  Helen  ! 
She  has  thrown  herself  away  upon  a  charlatan  !  And 
what  will  become  of  her  money  in  the  hands  of  a  man 
with  such  levelling  notions,  I  dread  to  think." 

"  He  said  something  about  buying  friends  with  it," 
said  the  rector. 


48  PAUL  FABER.  ^ 

"  Bribery  and  corruption  must  come  natural  to  a  fellow 
who  could  preach  a  sermon  like  that  after  marrying  money !" 

"  Why,  my  good  madam,  would  )-ou  have  a  man  turn 
his  back  on  a  girl  because  she  has  a  j^urse  in  her  pocket  ?" 

"  But  to  pretend  to  despise  it !  And  then,  worst  of 
all !  I  don't  know  whether  the  indelicacy  or  the  profanity 
was  the  greater  ! — when  I  think  of  it  now,  I  can  scarcely 
believe  I  really  heard  it ! — to  offer  to  show  his  books  to 
every  inejuisitive  fool  itching  to  know  my  niece's  fortune  ! 
Well,  she  shan't  see  a  penny  of  mine — that  I'm  determined 
on," 

"You  need  not  be  uneasy  about  the  books,  Mrs. 
Ramshorn.     You  remember  the  condition  annexed  ?" 

"  Stuff  and  hypocrisy  !  He's  played  his  game  well ! 
But  time  will  show." 

Mr.  Bevis  checked  his  answer.  He  was  beginning  to 
get  disgusted  with  the  old  cat,  as  he  called  her  to  himself 

He  too  had  made  a  good  speculation  in  the  hymeneo- 
money-market,  otherwise  he  could  hardly  have  afforded 
to  give  up  the  exercise  of  his  profession.  Mrs.  Bevis 
had  brought  him  the  nice  little  property  at  Owlkirk, 
where,  if  he  worshipped  mammon — and  after  his  curate's 
sermon  he  was  not  at  all  sure  he  did  not — he  worshipj^ed 
him  in  a  very  moderate  and  gentlemanly  fashion. 
Everybody  liked  the  rector,  and  two  or  three  loved  him 
a  little.  If  it  would  be  a  stretch  of  the  truth  to  call  a 
man  a  Christian  who  never  yet  in  his  life  had  con- 
sciously done  a  thing  because  it  was  commanded  by 
Christ,  he  was  not  therefore  a  godless  man ;  while, 
through  the  age-long  process  of  spiritual  infiltration,  he 
had  received  and  retained  much  that  was  Christian. 

The  ladies  went  to  take  off  their  bonnets,  and  their 
departure  was  a  relief  to  the  rector.  He  helped  himself 
to  anotlier  glass  of  sherry,  and  seated  himself  in  the  great 
easy  chair  formerly  approved  of  the  dean,  long  pro- 
moted. But  what  are  easy  chairs  to  uneasy  men  ? 
Dinner,  however,  was  at  hand,  and  that  would  make  a 
diversion  in  favour  of  less  disquieting  thought. 


7 HE  MANOR  HOUSE  DINIXG-ROOM.  49 

Mrs.  Ramshorn,  also,  was  uncomfortable — too  much 
so  to  be  relieved  by  taking  off  her  bonnet.  She  felt, 
with  no  little  soreness,  that  the  rector  was  not  with  her 
in  her  depreciation  of  Wingfold.  She  did  her  best  to 
play  the  hostess,  but  the  rector,  while  enjoying  his 
dinner  despite  discomfort  in  the  inward  parts,  was  in  a 
mood  of  silence  altogether  new  both  to  himself  and 
his  companions.  Mrs.  Eevis,  however,  talked  away  in  a 
soft  continuous  murmur.  She  was  a  good-natured  gentle 
soul,  without  whose  sort  the  world  would  be  harder  for 
many.  She  did  not  contribute  much  to  its  positive 
enjoyment,  but  for  my  part,  I  cannot  help  being  grateful 
even  to  a  cat  that  will  condescend  to  pur  to  me.  But  she 
had  not  much  mollifying  influence  on  her  hostess,  who 
snarled  and  judged  and  condemned,  nor  seemed  to  enjoy 
her  dinner  the  less.  When  it  was  over,  the  ladies  went 
to  the  drawing-room  ;  and  the  rector,  finding  his  com- 
pany unpleasant,  drank  but  a  week-day's  allowance  of 
wine,  and  went  to  have  a  look  at  his  horses. 

They  neighed  a  welcome  the  moment  his  boot  struck 
the  stones  of  the  yard,  for  they  loved  their  master  with 
all  the  love  their  strong,  timid,  patient  hearts  were  as  yet 
capable  of.  Satisfied  that  they  were  comfortable,  for  he 
found  them  busy  with  a  large  feed  of  oats  and  chaff  and 
Indian  corn,  he  threw  his  arm  over  the  back  of  his 
favourite, ,  and  stood,  leaning  against  her  for  minutes, 
half  dreaming,  half  thinking.  As  long  as  they  were  busy, 
their  munching  and  grinding  soothed  him — held  him  at 
least  in  quiescent  mood.;  the  moment  it  ceased,  he 
seemed  to  himself  to  wake  up  out  of  a  dream.  In  that 
dream,  however,  he  had  been  more  awake  than  any 
hour  for  long  years,  and  had  heard  and  seen  many 
things.  He  patted  his  mare  lovingly,  then,  with  a  faint 
sense  of  rebuked  injustice,  went  into  the  horse's  stall, 
and  patted  and  stroked  him  as  he  had  never  done  before. 

He  went  into  the  inn,  and  asked  for  a  cup  of  tea.  He 
would  have  had  a  sleep  on  Mrs.  Pinks's  sofa,  as  was  his 
custom  in  his  study — little  study,  alas,  went  on  there  ! — ■ 

B 


5° 


PAUL  FABER. 


but  he  had  a  call  to  make,  and  must  rouse  himself,  and 
that  was  partly  why  he  had  sought  the  inn.  For  Mrs. 
Ramshorn's  household  was  so  well  ordered  that  nothing 
was  to  be  had  out  of  the  usual  routine.  It  was  like  an 
American  country  inn,  where,  if  you  arrive  after  supper, 
you  will  most  likely  have  to  starve  till  next  morning. 
Her  servants,  in  fact,  were  her  masters,  and  she  dared 
not  go  into  her  own  kitchen  for  a  jug  of  hot  water. 
Possibly  it  was  her  dethronement  in  her  own  house  that 
made  her,  with  a  futile  clutching  after  lost  respect,  so 
anxious  to  rule  in  the  abbey  church.  As  it  was,  although 
John  Bevis  and  she  had  known  each  other  long,  and  in 
some  poor  sense  intimately,  he  would  never  in  her  house 
have  dared  ask  for  a  cup  of  tea  except  it  were  on  the 
table.  But  here  was  the  ease  of  his  inn,  where  the 
landlady  herself  was  proud  to  get  him  what  he  wanted. 
She  made  the  tea  from  her  own  caddy  ;  and  when  he  had 
drunk  three  cups  of  it,  washed  his  red  face,  and  re-tied 
his  white  neck-cloth,  he  set  out  to  make  his  cajl. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE   RECTORY   DRAWING-ROOM. 


JHE  call  was  upon  his  curate.  It  was  years 
since  he  had  entered  the  rectory.  The 
people  who  last  occupied  it,  he  had  scarcely 
known,  and  even  during  its  preparation  for 
Wingfold  he  had  not  gone  near  the  place. 
Yet  of  that  house  had  been  his  dream  as  he  stood  in  his 
mare's  stall,  and  it  was  with  a  strange  feeling  he  now 
approached  it.  Friends  generally  took  the  pleasanter 
way  to  the  garden  door,  opening  on  the  churchyard,  but 
Mr.  Bevis  went  round  by  the  lane  to  the  more  public 
entrance. 

All  his  years  with  his  first  wife  had  been  spent  in  that 
house.  She  was  delicate  when  he  married  her,  and  soon 
grew  sickly  and  suffering.  One  after  another  her 
children  died  as  babies.  At  last  came  one  who  lived, 
and  then  the  mother  began  to  die.  She  was  one  of  those 
lowly  women  who  apply  the  severity  born  of  their  creed 
to  themselves,  and  spend  only  the  love  born  of  the 
indwelling  Spirit  upon  their  neighbours.  She  was  rather 
melancholy,  but  hoped  as  much  as  she  could,  and  when 
she  could  not  hope  did  not  stand  still,  but  walked  on  in 
the  dark.  I  think  when  the  sun  rises  upon  them,  some 
people  will  be  astonished  to  find  how  far  they  have  got 
in  the  dark. 


52  PAUL  FABER. 

Her  husband,  without  verifying  for  himself  one  of  the 
things  it  was  his  business  to  teach  others,  was  yet  held 
in  some  sort  of  communion  with  sacred  things  by  his 
love  for  his  suffering  wife,  and  his  admiration  of  hei 
goodness  and  gentleness.  He  had  looked  up  to  her, 
though  several  years  younger  than  himself,  with  some- 
thing of  the  same  reverence  with  which  he  had  regarded 
his  mother,  a  woman  with  an  element  of  greatness  in  her. 
It  was  not  possible  he  should  ever  have  adopted  her 
views,  or  in  any  active  manner  allied  himself  with  the 
school  whose  doctrines  she  accepted  as  the  logical  em- 
bodiment of  the  gospel,  but  there  was  in  him  all  the  time 
a  vague  something  that  was  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  Some  of  his  wife's  friends  looked  upon 
him  as  a  wolf  in  the  sheepfold  ;  he  was  no  wolf,  he  was 
only  a  hireling.  Any  neighbourhood  might  have  been 
the  better  for  having  such  a  man  as  he  for  the  parson  of 
the  parish — only,  for  one  commissioned  to  be  in  the 
world  as  He  was  in  the  world  ! — why  he  knew  more 
about  the  will  of  God  as  to  a  horse's  legs,  than  as  to  the 
heart  of  a  man.  As  he  drew  near  the  house,  the  older 
and  tenderer  time  came  to  meet  him,  and  the  spirit  of  his 
suffering  ministering  wife  seemed  to  overshadow  him. 
Two  tears  grew  half-way  into  his  eyes  : — they  were  a  little 
bloodshot,  but  kind,  true  eyes.  He  was  not  sorry  he  had 
married  again,  for  he  and  his  wife  were  at  peace  Avith 
each  other,  but  he  had  found  that  the  same  part  of  his 
mind  would  not  serve  to  think  of  the  two  :  they  belonged 
to  different  zones  of  his  unexplored  world.  For  one 
thing,  his  present  wife  looked  up  to  him  with  perfect 
admiration,  and  he,  knowing  his  own  poverty,  rather 
looked  down  upon  her  in  consequence,  though  in  a  loving, 
gentle,  and  gentlemanlike  way. 

He  was  shown  into  the  same  room,  looking  out  on  the 
churchyard,  where,  in  the  first  months  of  his  married  life, 
he  sat  and  heard  his  wife  sing  her  few  songs,  accompany- 
ing them  on  the  little  piano  he  had  saved  hard  to  buy 
for    her,    until    she    made    him    love    them.      It   had 


THE  KECTOK  Y  DRA  IViXG-KOOM.  53 

lasted  only  through  those  few  months  ;  after  her  first 
baby  died,  she  rarely  tang.  But  all  the  colours  and  forms 
of  the  room  were  different,  and  that  made  it  easier  to 
check  the  lum})  rising  in  his  throat.  It  was  the  faith  of 
his  curate  that  had  thus  set  his  wife  before  him,  although 
the  two  would  hardly  have  agreed  in  any  confession 
narrower  than  the  Apostles'  creed. 

When  Wingfold  entered  the  room,  the  rector  rose,  went 
halfway  to  meet  him,  and  shook  hands  with  him  heartily. 
They  seated  themselves,  and  a  short  silence  followed. 
But  the  rector  knew  it  was  his  part  to  speak. 

"  I  was  in  church  this  morning,"  he  said,  with  a  half- 
humorous  glance  right  into  the  clear  grey  eyes  of  his 
curate. 

"  So  my  wife  tells  me,"  returned  Wingfold  with  a  smile. 

"  You  didn't  know  it  then  ?  "  rejoined  the  rector,  with 

now  an  almost  quizzical  glance,  in  which  hovered  a  little 

doubt.     "  I  thought  you   were  preaching  at  me  all  the 

time." 

"  God  forbid  !  "  said  the  curate  ;  "  I  was  not  aware  of 
your  presence.  I  did  not  even  know  you  were  in  the 
town  yesterday." 

"  You  must  have  had  some  one  in  your  mind's  eye. 
No  man  could  speak  as  you  did  this  morning,  who 
addressed  mere  abstract  humanity." 

"  I  will  not  say  that  individuals  did  not  come  up 
before  me;  how  can  a  man  help  it  where  he  knows 
everybody  in  his  congregation  more  or  less?  But  I 
give  you  my  word,  sir,  I  never  thought  of  you." 

"Then  you  might  have  done  so  with  the  greatest 
propriety,"  returned  the  rector.  "  My  conscience  sided 
with  you  all  the  time.  You  found  me  out.  I've  got  a 
bit  of  the  muscle  they  call  a  heart  left  in  me  yet,  though 
it  has  got  rather  leathery. — But  what  do  they  mean 
when  they  say  that  you  are  setting  the  parish  by  the 
ears  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  I  have  heard  of  no  quarrelling. 
I   have   made   some    enemies,    but   they   are   not  very 


54  PAUL  FABER. 

dangerous,  and  I  hope  not  very  bitter  ones ;  and  I  have 
made  many  more  friends,  I  am  sure." 

"  What  they  tell  me  is,  that  your  congregation  is 
divided — that  they  take  sides  for  and  against  yon,  which 
is  a  most  undesirable  thing,  surely  ! " 

"  It  is  indeed  ;  and  yet  it  may  be  a  thing  that,  for  a 
time,  cannot  be  helped.  Was  there  ever  man  with  the 
cure  of  souls,  concerning  whom  there  has  not  been 
^  more  or  less  of  such  division  ?  But,  if  you  will  have 
patience  with  me,  sir,  I  am  bold  to  say,  believing  in  the 
force  and  final  victory  of  the  truth,  there  will  be  more 
unity  by  and  by." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it.  But  come  now  ! — you  are  a 
thoroughly  good  fellow — that,  a  blind  horse  could  see  in 
the  dimmits — and  I'm  accountable  for  the  parish — 
couldn't  you  draw  it  a  little  milder,  you  know  ?  couldn't 
you  make  it  just  a  little  less  peculiar — only  the  way  of 
putting  it,  I  mean— so  that  it  should  look  a  little  more 
like  what  they  have  been  used  to  ?  I'm  only  suggesting 
the  thing,  you  know — dictating  nothing,  on  my  soul,  Mr. 
\\'ingfold.  I  am  sure  that,  whatever  you  do,  you  will  act 
according  to  your  conscience,  otherwise  I  should  not 
venture  to  say  a  word,  lest  I  should  lead  you  wrong." 

"  If  you  will  allow  me,"  said  the  curate,  "  I  will  tell  you 
my  whole  story ;  and  if  then  you  should  wish  it,  I  will 
resign  my  curacy,  without  saying  a  word  more  than  that 
my  rector  thinks  it  better.  Neither  in  private  shall  I 
make  a  single  remark  in  a  different  spirit." 

"  Let  me  hear,"  said  the  rector. 

"Then  will  you  please  take  this  chair,  that  I  may 
know  I  am  not  wearying  you  bodily  at  least." 

The  rector  did  as  he  was  requested,  laid  his  head  back, 
crossed  his  legs,  and  folded  his  hands  over  his  worn 
waistcoat  :  he  was  not  one  of  the  neat  order  of  parsons  ; 
he  had  a  not  unwholesome  disregard  of  his  outermost 
man,  and  did  not  know  when  he  was  shabby.  Without 
an  atom  of  pomposity  or  air  rectorial,  he  settled  himself 
to  listen. 


THE  RECTOR  Y  DRA  IVJXG-ROO.ir.  55 

Condensing  as  much  as  he  could,  Wingfold  told  him 
how  through  great  doubt,  and  dismal  trouble  of  mind, 
he  had  come  to  hope  in  God,  and  to  see  that  there  was 
no  choice  for  a  man  but  give  himself,  heart,  and  soul, 
and  body,  to  the  love,  and  will,  and  care  of  the  being 
who  had  made  him.  He  could  no  longer,  he  said, 
regard  his  profession  as  any  thing  less  than  a  call  to  use 
every  means  and  energy  at  his  command  for  the  rousing 
of  men  and  women  from  that  spiritual  sleep  and  moral 
carelessness  in  which  he  had  himself  been  so  lately 
sunk. 

"  I  don't  want  to  give  up  my  curacy,"  he  concluded. 
"  Still  less  do  I  want  to  leave  Glaston,  for  there  are  here 
some  whom  I  teach  and  some  who  teach  me.  In  all  that 
has  given  ground  for  complaint,  I  ha\-e  seemed  to  myself 
to  be  but  following  the  dictates  of  common  sense  ;  if  you 
think  me  wrong,  I  have  no  justification  to  offer.  We 
both  love  God, " 

"How  do  you  know  that  ?"  interrupted  the  rector. 
"I  wish  you  could  make  me  sure  of  that." 

"  I  do,  I  know  I  do,"  said  the  curate  earnestly.  "  I 
can  say  no  more." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  haven't  the  merest  shadow  of  a 
doubt  of  it,"  returned  the  rector  smiling.  "  What  I 
A'ished  was,  that  you  could  make  me  sure  /do." 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  sir,  but,  judging  from  sore  ex- 
perience, if  I  could  I  would  rather  make  you  doubt  it ;  the 
doubt,  even  if  an  utter  mistake,  would  in  the  end  be  so 
much  more  profitable  than  any  present  conviction." 

"  You  have  your  wish,  then,  Wingfold  :  I  doubt  it 
very  much,"  replied  the  rector.  "  I  must  go  home  and 
think  about  it  all.  You  shall  hear  from  me  in  a  day  or 
two." 

As  he  spoke  Mr.  Bevis  rose,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
like  a  man  greatly  urged  to  stretch  his  arms  and  legs. 
An  air  of  uneasiness  pervaded  his  whole  appearance. 

"  Will  you  not  stop  and  take  tea  with  us  ? "  said 
the  curate.     "  My  wife  will  be  disappointed  if  you  do 


56  PAUL  FABER. 

not.  You  have  been  good  to  her  for  twenty  years,  she 
says." 

"  She  makes  an  old  man  of  me,"  returned  the  rector 
musingly.  "  I  remember  her  such  a  tiny  thing  in  a  white 
frock  and  curls.— Tell  her  what  we  have  been  talking 
about,  and  beg  her  to  excuse  me.     I  must  go  home." 

He  took  his  hat  from  the  table,  shook  hands  with 
Wingfold,  and  walked  back  to  the  inn.  There  he  found 
his  horses  bedded,  and  the  ostler  away.  His  coachman 
was  gone  too,  nobody  knew  whither. 

To  sleep  at  the  inn  would  have  given  pointed  offence, 
but  he  would  rather  have  done  so  than  go  back  to  the 
Manor  House  to  hear  his  curate  abused.  With  the  help 
of  the  barmaid,  he  put  the  horses  to  the  carriage  him- 
self, and  to  the  astonishment  of  Mrs.  Ramshorn 
and  his  wife,  drew  up  at  the  door  of  the  Manor  House. 

Expostulation  on  the  part  of  the  former  was  vain. 
The  latter  made  none  :  it  was  much  the  same  to  Mrs. 
Bevis  where  she  was,  so  long  as  she  was  with  her  husband. 
Indeed  few  things  were  more  pleasant  to  her  than  sitting 
in  the  carriage  alone,  contemplating  the  back  of  Mr.  Bevis 
on  the  box,  and  the  motion  of  his  elbows  as  he  drove. 
Mrs.  Ramshorn  received  their  adieux  very  stiffly,  and 
never  after  mentioned  the  rector  without  adding  the 
epithet,  "  poor  man  !" 

Mrs.  Bevis  enjoyed  the  drive  ;  Mr.  Bevis  did  not. 
The  doubt  was  growing  stronger  and  stronger  all  the  way, 
that  he  had  not  behaved  like  a  gentleman  in  his  relation 
to  the  head  of  the  church.  He  had  naturally,  as  I  have 
already  shown,  a  fine,  honourable,  boyish  if  not  childlike 
nature ;  and  the  eyes  of  his  mind  were  not  so  dim  with 
good  living  as  one  might  have  feared  from  the  look  of 
those  in  his  head  :  in  the  glass  of  loyalty  he  now  saw 
liimself  a  defaulter ;  in  the  scales  of  honour  he  weighed 
and  found  himself  wanting.  Of  tiue  disciplesliij)  was 
not  now  the  question :  he  had  not  behaved  like  an 
honourable  gentleman  to  Jesus  Christ.  It  was  only  in 
a  spasm  of  terror  St.  Peter  had  denied  him  :  John  Bevis 


THE  RECTOR  V  DRA  WINC-kOO.^f.  $7 

had  for  nigh  forty  years  been  taking  his  pay,  and  for  the 
last  thirty  at  least  had  done  nothing  in  return.  Either  Jesus 
Christ  did  not  care,  and  then  what  was  the  church  ? — 
v.'hat  the  whole  system  of  things  called  Christianity  ?— 
or  he  did  care,  and  what  then  was  John  Bevis  in  the  eyes 
of  his  master?  When  they  reached  home,  he  went 
neither  to  the  stable  nor  the  study,  but,  without  even 
lighting  a  cigar,  walked  out  on  the  neighbouring  heath, 
where  he  found  the  universe  rather  gray  about  him. 
When  he  returned  he  tried  to  behave  as  usual,  but  his 
wife  saw  that  he  scarcely  ate  at  supper,  and  left  half 
of  his  brandy  and  water.  She  set  it  down  to  the 
annoyance  the  curate  had  caused  him,  and  wisely  for- 
bore troubling  him  with  questions. 


CHAPTER  X. 


MR.   DRAKES  ARBOUR. 


HILE  the  curate  \vas  preachiiig  that  same 
Sunday  morning,  in  the  cool  cavernous 
church,  with  its  great  lights  overhead, 
Walter  Drake — the  old  minister,  he  was 
now  called  by  his  disloyal  congregation — 
sat  in  a  little  arbour  looking  out  on  the  river  that  flowed 
through  the  town  to  the  sea.  Green  grass  went  down 
from  where  he  sat  to  the  very  water's  brink.  It  was  a 
spot  the  old  man  loved,  for  there  his  best  thoughts  came 
to  him.  There  was  in  him  a  good  deal  of  the  stuff  of 
which  poets  are  made,  and  since  trouble  overtook  him, 
the  river  had  more  and  more  gathered  to  itself  the  aspect 
of  that  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  ;  and  often,  as  he  sat  thus 
almost  on  its  edge,  he  fancied  himself  waiting  the  wel- 
come summons  to  go  home.  It  was  a  tidal  river,  with 
many  changes.  Now  it  flowed  with  a  full,  calm  current, 
conquering  the  tide,  like  life  sweeping  death  with  it  down 
into  the  bosom  of  the  eternal.  Now  it  seemed  to  stand 
still,  as  if  aghast  at  the  inroad  of  the  awful  thing  ;  and 
then  the  minister  would  bethink  himself  that  it  was  the 
tide  of  the  eternal  rising  in  the  narrow  earthly  channel : 
men,  he  said  to  himself,  called  it  death,  because  they  did 
not  know  what  it  was,  or  the  loveliness  of  its  quickening 


MR.  DRAKE'S  ARBOUR.  59 

energy.  It  fails  on  their  sense  by  the  might  of  its  grand 
excess,  and  they  call  it  by  the  name  of  its  opposite.  A 
weary  and  rather  disappointed  pilgrim,  he  thus  comforted 
himself  as  he  sat. 

There  a  great  salmon  rose  and  fell,  gleaming  like  a 
bolt  of  silver  in  the  sun  !  There  a  little  waterbeetle 
scurried  along  after  some  invisible  prey.  The  blue 
smoke  of  his  pipe  melted  in  the  Sabbath  air.  The  soft- 
ened sounds  of  a  singing  congregation  came  across 
gardens  and  hedges  to  his  ear.  They  sang  with  more 
energy  than  grace,  and,  not  for  the  first  time,  he  felt  they 
did.  Were  they  indeed  singing  to  the  Lord,  he  asked 
himself,  or  only  to  the  idol  Custom  ?  A  silence  came  : 
the  young  man  in  the  pulpit  was  giving  out  his  text,  and 
the  faces  that  had  turned  themselves  up  to  Walter  Diake 
as  flowers  to  the  sun,  were  now  all  turning  to  the  face  of 
him  they  had  chosen  in  his  stead,  "  to  minister  to  them  in 
holy  things."  He  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  sat 
motionless,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 

But  why  was  he  not  at  chapel  himself?  Could  it  be 
that  he  yielded  to  temptation,  actually  preferring  his  clay 
pipe  and  the  long  glide  of  the  river,  to  the  worship  and 
the  hymns  and  the  sermon  ?  Had  there  not  been  a  time 
when  he  judged  that  man  careless  of  the  truth  who  did 
not  go  to  the  chapel,  and  that  man  little  better  who  went  to 
the  church  ?  Yet  there  he  sat  on  a  Sunday  morning,  the 
church  on  one  side  of  him  and  the  chapel  on  the  other, 
smoking  his  pipe  !  His  daughter  was  at  the  chapel ;  she 
had  taken  Ducky  with  her ;  the  dog  lay  in  the  porch 
waiting  for  them  ;  the  cat  thought  too  much  of  herself  to 
make  friends  with  her  master ;  he  had  forgotten  his  New 
Testament  on  the  study  table ;  and  now  he  had  let  his 
pipe  out  ! 

He  was  not  well,  it  was  true,  but  he  was  well  enough  to 
have  gone.  ^Vas  he  too  proud  to  be  taught  where  he 
had  been  a  teacher  ?  or  was  it  that  the  youth  in  his  place 
taught  there  doctrines  which  neither  they  nor  their  fathers 
had  known  ?     It  could  not  surely  be  from  resentment  that 


6o  PAUL  i\lBER. 

they  had  superannuated  him  in  the  prime  of  his  old  age, 
^vith  a  pared  third  of  his  late  salary,  which  nothing  but 
honesty  in  respect  of  the  small  moneys  he  owed  could 
have   prevented  him  from  refusing ! 

In  truth  it  ^s•as  impossible  the  old  minister  should  have 
any  great  esteem  for  the  flashy  youth,  proud  of  his 
small  Latin  and  less  Greek,  a  mere  unit  of  the  hundreds 
whom  the  devil  of  ambition  drives  to  preaching  ;  one  who, 
whether  the  doctrines  he  taught  were  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment or  not,  certainly  never  found  them  there,  being  but 
the  merest  disciple  of  a  disciple  of  a  disciple,  and  fervid 
in  words  of  which  he  perceived  scarce  a  glimmer  of 
the  divine  purport.  At  the  same  time,  he  might  have 
seen  points  of  resemblance  between  his  own  early  history 
and  that  of  the  callow  chirper  of  divinity  now  holding 
forth  from  his  pulpit,  which  might  have  tended  to  mollify 
his  judgment  with  sympathy. 

His  people  had  behaved  ill  to  him,  and  he  could  not  say 
he  was  free  from  resentment  or  pride,  but  he  did  make  for 
them  what  excuse  lay  in  the  fact  that  the  congregation 
had  been  dwindling  ever  since  the  curate  at  the  abbey- 
church  began  to  preach  in  such  a  strange  outspoken 
fashion.  There  now  was  a  right  sort  of  man  !  he  said  to 
himself  No  attempted  oratory  with  him  !  no  prepared 
surprises !  no  playhouse  tricks !  no  studied  graces  in 
wafture  of  hands  and  upheaved  eyes  !  And  yet  at  mo- 
ments when  he  became  possessed  with  his  object  rather 
than  subject,  every  inch  of  him  seemed  alive.  He  was 
odd — very  odd ;  perhaps  he  was  crazy — but  at  least  he 
was  honest.  He  had  heard  him  himself,  and  judged  him 
well  worth  helping  to  what  was  better,  for,  alas  i  notwith- 
standing the  vigour  of  his  preaching,  he  did  not  appear 
to  have  himself  discovered  as  yet  the  treasure  hid  in  the 
field.  He  was,  nevertheless,  incomparably  the  superior 
of  the  young  man  whom,  expecting  him  to  dnnc,  the 
deacons  of  his  church,  with  the  members  behind  them, 
had  substituted  for  himself,  who  had  for  more  thon  fifteen 
years  ministered  to  them  the  bread  of  life. 


MR.  DRAKES  ARBOUR.  6i 

Bread  ! — Yes,  I  think  it  might  honestly  be  called 
bread  that  Walter  Drake  had  ministered.  It  had  not 
been  free  from  chalk  or  potatoes  :  bits  of  shell  and  peel 
might  have  been  found  in  it,  with  an  occasional  bit  of 
dirt,  and  a  hair  or  two  ;  yes,  even  a  little  alum,  and  that 
is  bad,  because  it  tends  to  destroy  not  satisfy  the  hunger. 
There  was  sawdust  in  it,  and  parchment-dust,  and 
lumber-dust ;  it  was  ill  salted,  badly  baked,  sad ; 
sometimes  it  was  blue-mouldy,  and  sometimes  even 
maggoty  ;  but  the  mass  of  it  was  honest  flour,  and  those 
who  did  not  recoil  from  the  look  of  it,  or  recognize  the 
presence  of  the  variety  of  foreign  matter,  could  live  upon 
it,  in  a  sense,  up  to  a  certain  pitch  of  life.  But  a  great 
deal  of  it  was  not  of  his  baking  at  all — he  had  been 
merely  the  distributor — crumbling  down  other  bakers' 
loaves  and  making  them  up  again  in  his  own  shapes. 
In  his  declining  years,  however,  he  had  been  really  be- 
ginning to  learn  the  business.  Only,  in  his  congregation 
were  many  who  not  merely  preferred  bad  bread  of  certain 
kinds,  but  were  incapable  of  digesting  any  of  high  quality. 

He  would  have  gone  to  chapel  that  morning,  had  the 
young  man  been  such  as  he  could  respect.  Neither  his 
doctrine,  nor  the  behaviour  of  the  church  to  himself, 
would  have  kept  him  away.  Had  he  followed  his  inclin- 
ation he  would  have  gone  to  church,  only  that  would  have 
looked  spiteful.  His  late  congregation  would  easily  ex- 
cuse his  non-attendance  with  them ;  they  would  even 
pitifully  explain  to  each  other  why  he  could  not  appear 
just  yet ;  but  to  go  to  church  would  be  in  their  eyes  un- 
pardonable— a  declaration  of  a  war  of  revenge. 

There  was,  however,  a  reason  besides,  why  Mr.  Drake 
could  not  go  to  church  that  morning,  and  if  not  a  more 
serious,  it  was  a  much  more  painful  one.  Some  short  time 
before  he  had  any  ground  to  suspect  that  his  congregation 
was  faltering  in  its  loyalty  to  him,  his  daughter  had  dis- 
covered that  the  chapel  butcher,  when  he  sent  a  piece  of 
meat,  invariably  charged  for  a  few  ounces  beyond  thcweight 
delivered.     Now  Mr.  Drake  was  a  man  of  such  honesty 


62  PAUL  FABER. 

that  all  kinds  of  cheating,  down  to  the  most  respectable, 
were  abominable  to  him  ;  that  the  man  was  a  professor 
of  religion  made  his  conduct  unpardonable  in  his  eyes, 
and  that  he  was  one  of  his  own  congregation  rendered 
it  insupportable.  Having  taken  pains  to  satisfy  himself 
of  the  fact,  he  declined  to  deal  with  him  any  farther,  and 
did  not  spare  to  tell  him  why.  The  man  was  far  too 
dishonest  to  profit  by  rebuke  save  in  circumspection  and 
cunning,  was  revengeful  in  proportion  to  the  justice  of 
the  accusation,  and  of  course  brought  his  influence,  which 
was  not  small,  to  bear  upon  the  votes  of  the  church- 
members  in  respect  of  the  pastorate. 

Had  there  been  another  butcher  in  connection  with  the 
chapel,  Mr.  Drake  would  have  turned  to  him,  but  as  there 
was  not,  and  they  could  not  go  without  meat,  he  had  to 
betake  himself  to  the  principal  butcher  in  the  place,  who 
was  a  member  of  the  church  of  England.  Soon  after, 
his  troubles  commenced,  and  before  many  weeks  were 
over,  he  saw  plainly  enough  that  he  must  either  resign 
altogether,  and  go  out  into  the  great  world  of  dissent  in 
search  of  some  pastorless  flock  that  might  vote  him  their 
crook,  to  be  guided  by  him  whither  they  wanted  to  go, 
and  whither  most  of  them  believed  they  knew  the  way 
as  well  as  he,  or  accept  the  pittance  offered  him. 
This  would  be  to  retire  from  the  forefront  of  the  battle, 
and  take  an  undistinguished  place  in  the  crowd  of  mere 
camp-followers,  but,  for  the  sake  of  honesty,  as  I  have 
already  explained,  and  with  the  hope  that  it  might  be 
only  for  a  brief  season,  he  had  chosen  the  latter  half  of 
the  alternative.  And  truly  it  was  a  great  relief  not  to 
have  to  grind  out  of  his  poor  weary  groaning  mill  the 
two  inevitable  weekly  sermons— labour  sufficient  to 
darken  the  face  of  nature  to  the  conscientious  man.  For 
his  people  thought  themselves  intellectual,  and  certainly 
were  critical.  Mere  edification  in  holiness  was  not 
enough  for  them.  A  large  infusion  of  some  polemic 
element  was  necessary  to  make  the  meat  savoury  and 
such  as  their  souls  loved.     Their  ambition  was   not  to 


MR.  DRAKES  ARBOUR.  03 

grow  in  grace,  but  in  social  influence  and  regard — to 
glorify  their  dissent,  not  the  communion  of  saints. 
Upon  the  chief  corner-stone  they  would  build  their 
stubble  of  paltry  religionism  ;  they  would  set  up  their 
ragged  tent  in  the  midst  of  the  eternal  temple,  careless 
how  it  blocked  up  window  and  stair. 

Now  last  week  Mr.  Drake  had  requested  his  new 
butcher  to  send  his  bill — with  some  little  anxiety, 
because  of  the  sudden  limitation  of  his  income  ;  but 
when  he  saw  it  he  was  filled  with  horror.  Amounting 
only  to  a  very  few  pounds,  causes  had  come  together 
to  make  it  a  large  one  in  comparison  with  the  figures  he 
was  accustomed  to  see.  Always  feeding  some  of  his 
flock,  he  had  at  this  time  two  sickly,  nursing  mothers  who 
drew  their  mortal  life  from  his  kitchen ;  and,  besides,  the 
doctor  had,  some  time  ago,  ordered  a  larger  amount  of 
animal  food  for  the  little  Amanda.  In  fine,  the  sum  at 
the  bottom  of  that  long  slip  of  paper,  with  the  wood-cut  of 
a  prize  ox  at  the  top  of  it,  small  as  he  would  have  thought 
it  at  one  period  of  his  history,  was  greater  than  he  could 
imagine  how  to  pay ;  and  if  he  went  to  church,  it  would 
be  to  feel  the  eye  of  the  butcher  and  not  that  of  the 
curate  upon  him  all  the  time.  It  was  a  dismay,  a  horror 
to  him  to  have  an  account  rendered  which  he  could  not 
settle — and  especially  from  his  new  butcher,  after  he  had 
so  severely  rebuked  the  old  one.  Where  was  the  mighty 
difference  in  honesty  between  himself  and  the  offender  ? 
The  one  claimed  for  meat  he  had  not  sold,  the  other 
ordered  that  for  which  he  could  not  pay  !  Would  not 
Mr.  Jones  imagine  he  had  left  his  fellow-butcher  and 
come  to  him  because  he  had  run  up  a  large  bill  for  which 
he  was  unable  to  write  a  check  ?  This  was  that  over 
which  the  spirit  of  the  man  now  brooded  by  far  the  most 
painfully  ;  this  it  was  that  had  made  him  leave  his  New 
Testament  in  the  study,  let  his  pipe  out,  and  look  almost 
lovingly  upon  the  fast-flowing  river,  because  it  was  2 
symbol  of  death. 

He  had  chosen  preaching  as  a  profession,  just  as  so 


64  PAUL  FABER. 

many  take  orders — with  this  difference  from  a  large  pro- 
portion of  such,  that  he  had  striven  powerfully  to  convince 
himself  that  he  trusted  in  the  merits  of  the  Redeemer. 
Had  he  not  in  this  met  with  tolerable  success,  he  would 
not  have  yielded  to  the  wish  of  his  friends  and  left  his 
father's  shop  in  his  native  country-town  for  a  dissenting 
college  in  the  neighbourhood  of  London.  There  he 
worked  Avell,  and  became  a  good  scholar,  learning  to  read 
in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  that  is,  to  try  the  spirits  as 
he  read.  His  character,  so  called,  was  sound,  and  his 
conscience,  if  not  sensitive,  was  firm  and  regnant.  But 
he  was  injured  both  spiritually  and  morally  by  some  of 
the  instructions  there  given.  For  one  of  the  objects  held 
up  as  duties  before  him,  was,  to  become  capable  of 
rendering  himself  accepable  to  a  congregation. 

Most  of  the  students  were  but  too  ready  to  regard,  or 
at  least  to  treat  this  object,  as  the  first  and  foremost  of 
duties.  The  master-duty  of  devotion  to  Christ,  and 
obedience  to  every  word  that  proceeded  out  of  his 
mouth,  was  very  much  treated  as  a  thing  understood,  re- 
quiring little  enforcement;  while,  the  main  thing  demanded 
of  them  being  sermons  in  some  sense  their  own — honey 
culled  at  least  by  their  own  bees,  and  not  bought  in  jars, 
much  was  said  about  the  plan  and  composition  of  sermons, 
about  style,  and  utterance,  and  elocution,  and  action — 
all,  plainly  and  confessedly,  with  a  vievv'  to  \>w\\)\'i-siiccess 
— the  lowest  of  all  low  successes,  and  the  most  worldly. 

These  instructions  AValter  Drake  accepted  as  the 
wisdom  of  the  holy  serpent — devoted  large  attention  to 
composition,  laboured  to  form  his  style  on  the  best 
models^  and  before  beginning  to  write  a  sermon,  always 
heated  the  furnace  of  production  with  fuel  from  some  ex- 
citing or  suggestive  author :  it  would  be  more  correct  to 
say,  fed  the  mill  of  composition  from  some  such  source  ; 
one  consequence  of  all  which  was,  that  when  at  last,  after 
many  years,  he  did  begin  to  develop  some  individuality, 
he  could  not,  and  never  did  shake  himself  free  of  those 
weary  models ;   his  thoughts,  appearing  in  clothes  which 


MR.  DRAKE'S  ARBOUR.  65 

were  not  made  for  them,  wore  always  a  certain  stiffness 
and  unreality  which  did  not  by  nature  belong  to  them, 
blunting  the  impression  wliich  liis  earnestness  and  sincerity 
did  notwithstanding  make. 

Determined  to  succeed,  he  cultivated  eloquence  also 
— what  he  supposed  eloquence,  that  is,  being,  of  course, 
merely  elocution,  to  attain  the  right  gestures  belonging  to 
which  he  looked  far  more  frequently  into  his  landlady's 
mirror,  than  for  his  spiritual  action  into  the  law  of  liberty. 
He  had  his  reward  in  the  success  he  sought.  But  I 
must  make  haste,  for  the  story  of  worldly  success  is 
always  a  mean  tale.  In  a  few  years,  and  for  not  a  few  after, 
he  was  a  popular  preacher  in  one  of  the  suburbs  of  London 
— a  good  deal  sought  after,  and  greatly  lauded.  He 
lived  in  comfort,  indulged  indeed  in  some  amount  of 
show ;  married  a  widow  with  a  large  life-annuity,  which 
between  them  they  spent  entirely,  and  that  not  altogether 
in  making  friends  with  everlasting  habitations  ;  in  a  word, 
gazed  out  on  the  social  landscape  far  oftener  than  lifted 
his  eyes  to  the  hills. 

After  some  ten  or  twelve  years,  a  change  began. 
They  had  three  children  ;  the  two  boys,  healthy  and 
beautiful,  took  scarlatina  and  died ;  the  poor  sickly  girl 
wailed  on.  His  wife,  who  had  always  been  more  devoted 
to  her  children  than  her  husband,  pined,  and  died  also. 
Her  money  went,  if  not  with  her,  yet  away  from  him. 
His  spirits  began  to  fail  him,  and  his  small,  puny,  peak- 
ing daughter  did  not  comfort  him  much.  He  was 
capable  of  true,  but  not  yet  of  pure  love  ;  at  present  his 
love  was  capricious.  Little  Dora — a  small  Dorothy  in- 
deed in  his  estimation — had  always  been  a  better  child 
than  either  of  her  brothers,  but  he  loved  them  the  more 
that  others  admired  them,  and  her  the  less  that  others 
pitied  her  :  he  did  try  to  love  her,  for  there  was  a  large 
element  of  justice  in  his  nature.  This,  but  for  his  being 
so  much  occupied  with  fnakin^  hiinscif  acceptable  to  his 
congregation,  would  have  given  him  a  leadership  in  the 
rising   rebellion   against   a  theology  which   crushed  the 


66  PAUL  FA  BE  A'. 

liearts  of  men  by  attributing  injustice  to  their  God.  As 
it  was,  he  lay  at  anchor,  and  let  the  tide  rush  past  him. 

Further  change  followed — gradual,  but  rapid.  His 
congregation  began  to  discover  that  he  was  not  the  man 
he  had  been.  They  complained  of  lack  of  variety  in  his 
preaching ;  said  he  took  it  too  easy  ;  did  not  study  his 
sermons  sufficiently ;  often  spoke  extempore,  which  was 
a  poor  compliment  to  ihem  ;  did  not  visit  with  imparti- 
ality, and  indeed  had  all  along  favoured  the  carriage- 
people.  There  was  a  party  in  the  church  which  had  not 
been  cordial  to  him  from  the  first  ;  partly  from  his  fault, 
partly  from  theirs,  he  had  always  made  them  feel  they 
were  of  lower  grade ;  and  from  an  increase  of  shops  in 
the  neighbourhood,  this  party  was  now  gathering  head. 
Their  leaders  went  so  far  at  length  as  to  hint  at  a  neces- 
sity for  explanation  in  regard  to  the  accounts  of  certain 
charities  administered  by  the  pastor.  In  these,  unhappily, 
lacunae  were  patent.  In  his  troubles  the  i^astor  had 
grown  careless.  But  it  was  altogether  to  his  own  loss,  for 
not  merely  had  the  money  been  spent  with  a  rigidity  of 
uprightness,  such  as  few  indeed  of  his  accusers  exercised 
in  their  business  affairs,  but  he  had  in  his  disbursements 
exceeded  the  contributions  committed  to  his  charge. 
Confident,  however,  in  his  position,  and  much  occupied 
with  other  thoughts,  he  had  taken  no  care  to  set  down  the 
particulars  of  his  expenditure,  and  his  enemies  did  not 
fail  to  hint  a  connection  between  this  fact  and  the  loss 
of  his  wife's  annuity.  Worst  of  all,  doubts  of  his  ortho- 
doxy began  to  be  expressed  by  the  more  ignorant,  and 
harboured  without  examination  by  the  less  ignorant. 

All  at  once  he  became  aware  of  the  general  disloyalty  of 
liis  flock,  and  immediately  resigned.  Scarcely  had  he 
done  so  when  he  was  invited  to  Claston,  and  received 
with  open  arms.  There  he  would  heal  his  wounds,  and 
spend  the  rest  of  his  days  in  peace.  He  "  cauglit  a  j;lip 
or  two  "  in  descending,  but  soon  began  to  find  the  valley 
of  humiliation  that  wholesome  jjlace  which  all  true  pil- 
grims  have  ever  declared  it.     Comparative   retirement, 


MR.  DRALE'S  ARBOUR.  67 

some  sense  of  lost  labour,  some  suspicion  of  the  worth 
of  the  ends  for  which  he  had  spent  his  strength,  a  waking 
desire  after  the  God  in  whom  he  had  vaguely  believed  all 
the  time  he  was  letting  the  dust  of  paltry  accident  in- 
flame his  eyes,  blistering  and  deadening  his  touch  with 
the  efilorescent  crusts  and  agaric  tumours  upon  the  dry 
bones  of  theology,  gilding  the  vane  of  his  chapel  instead 
of  cleansing  its"  porch  and  its  floor — these  all  favoured 
the  birth  in  his  mind  of  the  question,  whether  he  had 
ever  entered  in  at  the  strait  gate  himself,  or  had  not 
merely  been  standing  by  its  side  calling  to  others  to  enter 
in.  Was  it  even  as  well  as  this  with  him  ?  Had  he  not 
been  more  intent  on  gathering  a  wretched  flock  within  the 
rough,  wool-stealing,  wind-sifting,  beggarly  hurdles  of  his 
church,  than  on  housing  true  men  and  women  safe  in  the 
fold  of  the  true  Shepherd  ?  Feeding  troughs  for  the 
sheep  there  might  be  many  in  the  fields,  and  they  might 
or  might  not  be  presided  over  by  servants  of  the  true 
Shepherd,  but  the  fold  they  Avere  not !  He  grew  humble 
before  the  master,  and  the  master  began  to  lord  it  lov- 
ingly over  him.  He  sought  his  presence,  and  found  him ; 
began  to  think  less  of  books  and  rabbis,  yea  even,  for 
the  time,  of  Paul  and  ApoUos  and  Cephas,  and  to  pore 
and  ponder  over  the  living  tale  of  the  New  Covenant  ; 
began  to  feel  that  the  Lord  meant  what  he  said,  and  that 
his  apostles  also  meant  what  he  said  ;  forgot  Calvin  a 
good  deal,  outgrew  the  influences  of  Jonathan  Edwards, 
and  began  to  understand  Jesus  Christ. 

Few  sights  can  be  lovelier  than  that  of  a  man  who, 
having  rushed  up  the  staircase  of  fame  in  his  youth — what 
matter  whether  the  fame  of  a  paltry  world,  or  of  a  paltry 
sect  of  that  world  ! — comes  slowly,  gently,  graciously 
down  in  his  old  age,  content  to  lose  that  which  he  never 
had,  and  careful  only  to  be  honest  at  last.  It  had  not 
been  so  with  AValter  Drake.  He  had  to  come  down  first 
to  begin  to  get  the  good  of  it,  but  once  down,  it  was  not 
long  ere  he  began  to  go  up  a  very  diirtrent  stair  indeed. 
A  change  took  place  in  him  which  turned  all   aims,  all 


68  PAUL  FABER, 

efforts,  all  victories  of  the  world,  into  the  merest,  most 
poverty-stricken  trifling.  He  had  been  a  tarrer  and 
smearer,  a  marker  and  shearer  of  sheep,  rather  than  a 
])astor ;  but  now  he  recognized  the  rod  and  leaned  on 
the  staff  of  the  true  Shepherd  who  feeds  both  shepherds 
and  sheep.  Hearty  were  the  thanks  he  offered  that  he 
had  been  stayed  in  his  worse  than  foolish  career. 

Since  then,  he  had  got  into  a  hollow  in  the  valley,  and 
at  this  moment,  as  he  sat  in  his  summer-house,  was  look- 
ing from  a  verge  abrupt  into  what  seemed  a  bottomless 
gulf  of  humiliation.  For  his  handsome  London  house, 
he  had  little  better  than  a  cottage,  in  which  his  study  was 
not  a  quarter  of  the  size  of  the  one  he  had  left ;  he  had  sold 
two-thirds  of  his  books;  for  three  men  and  four  women 
servants,  he  had  but  one  old  woman  and  his  own  daughter 
to  do  the  work  of  the  house  ;  for  all  quadrupedal  menie,  he 
had  but  a  nondescript  canine  and  a  contemptuous  feline 
foundling ;  from  a  devoted  congregation  of  comparatively 
educated  people,  he  had  sunk  to  one  in  which  there  was 
not  a  person  of  higher  standing  than  a  tradesman,  and 
that  congregation  had  now  rejected  him  as  not  up  to 
their  mark,  turning  him  off  to  do  his  best  with  fifty  pounds 
a  year.  He  had  himself  heard  the  cheating  butcher  re- 
mark in  the  open  street  that  it  was  quite  enough,  and 
more  than  ever  his  master  had.  Eut  all  these  things 
were  as  nothing  in  his  eyes  beside  his  inability  to  pav  Mr. 
Jones's  bill.  He  had  outgrown  his  former  self,  but  this 
kind  of  misery  it  would  be  but  deeper  degradation  to 
outgrow.  All  before  this  had  been  but  humiliation  ;  this 
was  shame.  Now  first  he  knew  what  poverty  was  !  Had 
God  forgotten  him  ?  That  could  not  be  !  that  which 
could  forget  could  not  be  God.  Did  he  not  care  then 
that  such  things  should  befall  his  creatures  ?  Were  they 
trifles  in  his  eyes  ?  He  ceased  thinking,  gave  way  to 
the  feeling  that  God  dealt  hardly  with  him,  and  sat 
stupidly  indulging  a  sense  of  grievance — with  self-pity, 
than  which  there  is  scarce  one  more  childish  or  enfeebling 
in  the  whole  circle  of  the  emotions.     Was  this  what  God 


MR.  DRAKE'S  ARBOUR.  69 

had  brought  him  nearer  to  himself  for  ?  was  this  the  end 
of  a  ministry  in  which  he  had,  in  some  measure  at  least, 
denied  himself  and  served  God  and  his  fellow?  He 
could  bear  anything  but  shame  !  That  too  he  could  have 
borne  had  he  not  been  a  teacher  of  religion — one  whose 
failure  must  brand  him  a  hypocrite.  How  mean  it  would 
sound— what  a  reproach  to  the  cause,  that  the  congrega- 
tional minister  had  run  up  a  bill  with  a  church-butcher 
which  he  was  unable  to  pay  !  It  was  the  shame— the 
shame  he  could  not  bear  !  Ought  he  to  have  been  sub- 
jected to  it? 

A  humbler  and  better  mood  slowly  daAvned  with  un- 
conscious change,  and  he  began  to  ponder  with  himself 
wherein  he  had  been  misusing  the  money  given  him  : 
either  he  had  been  misusing  it,  or  God  had  not  giveii 
him  enough,  seeing  it  would  net  reach  the  end  of  his 
needs ;  but  he  could  think  only  of  the  poor  he  had  fed, 
and  the  child  he  had  adopted,  and  surely  God  would 
overlook  those  points  of  extravagance.  Still,  if  he  had 
not  the  means,  he  had  not  the  right  to  do  such  things. 
It  might  not  in  itself  be  vn-ong,  but  in  respect  of  him  it 
was  as  dishonest  as  if  he  had  spent  the  money  on  himself 
^not  to  mention  that  it  was  a  thwarting  of  the  counsel  of 
Clod,  who,  if  he  had  meant  them  to  be  so  aided,  would 
liave  sent  him  the  money  to  spend  upon  them  honestly. 
His  one  excuse  was  that  he  could  not  have  foreseen  how 
soon  his  income  was  going  to  shrink  to  a  third.  In  future 
he  would  withhold  hi's  hand.  But  surely  he  might  keep 
the  child?  Nay,  having  once  taken  her  in  charge,  he 
must  keep  the  child.  It  was  a  comfort  there  could  be  no 
doubt  about  that.  God  had  money  enough,  and  certainly 
he  would  enable  him  to  do  that !  Only,  why  then  did 
he  bring  him  to  such  poverty  ? 

So  round  in  his  mill  he  went,  round  and  round  again, 
and  back  to  the  old  evil  mood.  Either  there  was  no 
God,  or  he  was  a  hard-used  man,  whom  his  master  did 
not  mind  bringing  to  shame  before  his  enemies  !  He 
could   not   tell    which   would   triumph   the    more — the 


70  rAUL  FABEK. 

church-butcher  over  dissent,  or  the  chapel-butcher  over 
the  church-butcher,  and  the  pastor  who  had  rebuked 
/lim  for  dishonesty  !  His  very  soul  was  disquieted  withit? 
him.  He  rose  at  last  with  a  tear  trickling  down  \\\% 
cheek,  and  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  garden. 

Things  went  on  nevertheless  as  if  all  was  right  with 
the  world,     llie  Lythe  flowed  to  the  sea,  and  the  silver- 
mailed  salmon   leaped  into  the  more  limpid  air.      The 
sun  shone  gracious  over  all  his  kingdom,  and  his  little 
praisers  were  loud  in  every  bush.     The  primroses,  earth- 
born  suns,   were  shining  about  in  every  border.     The  [ 
sound  of  the  great  organ  came  from  the  grand  old  church,  \ 
and  the  sound  of  many  voices  from  the  humble  chapeL   \ 
Only,  where  was  the  heart  of  it  all?  ^ 


h^^r_13J^ 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE    CHAMBER    AT    THE    COITAGE. 

.EANWHILE  Fabcr  was  making  a  round, 
with  the  village  of  Owlkirk  for  the  end  of  it. 
Ere  he  was  half-Avay  thither,  his  groom  was 
tearing  after  him  upon  Niger,  with  a  message 
from  Mrs.  Puckridge,  which,  however,  did 
not  overtake  him.  He  opened  the  cottage-door,  and 
walked  upstairs,  expecting  to  find  his  patient  weak,  but  in 
the  fairest  of  ways  to  recover  speedily.  What  was  his 
horror  to  see  her  landlady  weeping  and  wringing  her 
hands  over  the  bed,  and  find  the  lady  lying  motionless, 
with  bloodless  lips  and  distended  nostrils— to  all  appear- 
ance dead  !  Pillows,  sheets,  blankets,  looked  one  mass 
of  red.  The  bandage  had  shifted  while  she  slept,  and  all 
night  her  blood  had  softly  flowed.  Hers  was  one  of  those 
l)eculiar  organizations  in  which,  from  some  cause  but 
dinily  conjectured  as  y^t,  the  blood  once  set  flowing  will 
flow  on  to  death,  and  even  the  tiniest  wound  is  hard  to 
stanch.  Was  the  lovely  creature  gone  ?  In  her  wrist  he 
could  discern  no  pulse.  He  folded  back  the  bed-clothes, 
and  laid  his  ear  to  her  heart.  His  whole  soul  listened. 
Yes;  there  wa?  certainly  the  faintest  flutter.  He  watched 
a  moment :  yes ;  he  could  see  just  the  faintest  tremor 
of  the  diaphragm. 


72  rAUL  FABER. 

"  Run,'*  he  cried,  " — for  God's  sake  run  and  bring  mc  a 
jug  of  hot  water,  and  two  or  three  basins.  There  is  just 
a  chance  yet  !  If  you  make  haste,  we  may  save  her. 
Bring  me  a  syringe.  If  you  haven't  one,  run  from  house 
to  house  till  you  get  one.  Her  life  depends  on  it."  By 
this  time  he  was  shouting  after  the  hurrying  landlady. 

In  a  minute  or  two  she  returned. 

"  Have  you  got  the  syringe  ?  "  he  cried,  the  moment  he 
heard  her  step. 

To  his  great  relief  she  had.  He  told  her  to  wash  it 
out  thoroughly  with  the  hot  water,  unscrew  the  top,  and 
take  out  the  piston.  While  giving  his  directions,  he 
unbound  the  arm,  enlarged  the  wound  in  the  vein 
longitudinally,  and  re-bound  the  arm  tight  below  the 
elbow,  then  quickly  opened  a  vein  of  his  own,  and  held  the 
syringe  to  catch  the  spout  that  followed.  When  it  was 
full,  he  replaced  the  piston,  telling  Mrs.  Puckridge  to 
put  her  thumb  on  his  wound,  turned  the  point  of  the 
syringe  up  and  drove  a  little  out  to  get  rid  of  the  air, 
then,  with  the  help  of  a  probe,  inserted  the  nozzle  in 
the  wound,  and  gently  forced  in  the  blood.  That  done, 
he  placed  his  own  thumbs  on  the  two  wounds,  and 
made  the  woman  wash  out  the  syringe  in  clean  hot 
water.  Then  he  filled  it  as  before,  and  again  forced  its 
contents  into  the  lady's  arm.  This  process  he  went 
through  repeatedly.  Then,  listening,  he  found  her  heart 
beating  quite  perceptibly,  though  irregularly.  Her  breath 
was  flxintly  coming  and  going.  Several  times  more  he 
repeated  the  strange  dose,  then  ceased,  and  was  occupied 
in  binding  up  her  arm,  when  she  gave  a  great  shuddering 
sigh.  By  the  time  he  had  finished,  the  pulse  was  per- 
ceptible at  her  wrist.  Last  of  all  he  bound  up  his  own 
wound,  from  which  had  escaped  a  good  deal  beyond 
what  he  had  used.  While  thus  occupied,  he  turned  sick, 
and  lay  down  on  the  floor.  Presently,  however,  hegrewable 
to  crawl  fiom  the  room,  and  got  into  the  garden  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  where  he  walked  softly  to  the  little  rude 
arbour  atthe  end  of  it,  and  sat  down  as  if  inadrcam.     But  in 


THE  CHAMBER  AT  THE  COITAGE.  73 

the  dream  his  soul  felt  wondrously  awake.  He  had  been 
tasting  death  from  the  same  cup  with  the  beautiful  woman 
who  lay  there,  coming  alive  with  his  life.  A  terrible 
weight  was  heaved  from  his  bosom.  If  she  had  died,  he 
would  have  felt,  all  his  life  long,  that  he  had  sent  one  of 
the  loveliest  of  Nature's  living  dreams  back  to  the  dark- 
ness and  the  worm,  long  years  before  her  time,  and  with 
the  foam  of  the  cup  of  life  yet  on  her  lips.  Then 
a  horror  seized  him  at  the  presumptuousness  of  the 
liberty  he  had  taken.  What  if  the  beautiful  creature 
would  rather  have  died  than  have  the  blood  of  a  man, 
one  she  neither  loved  nor  knew,  in  her  veins,  and 
coursing  through  her  very  heart  !  She  must  r.ever 
know  it. 

"  I  am  very  grateful,"  he  said  to  himself ;  then  smiled 
and  wondered  to  whom  he  was  grateful. 

''  How  the  old  stamps  and  colours  come  out  in  the 
brain  when  one  least  expects  it !  "  he  said.  "  What  I 
meant  was.  How  glad  I  am  !  " 

Honest  as  he  was,  he  did  not  feel  called  upon  to 
examine  whether  glad  was  really  the  word  to  represent  the 
feeling  which  the  thought  of  what  he  had  escaped,  and  of 
the  creature  he  had  saved  from  death,  had  sent  up  into 
his  consciousness.  Glad  he  was  indeed  !  but  was  there 
not  mingled  with  his  gladness  a  touch  of  something  else, 
very  slight,  yet  potent  enough  to  make  him  mean 
grateful  when  the  word  broke  from  him  ?  and  if  there  was 
"such  a  something,  where  did  it  come  from  ?  Perhaps  if 
he  had  caught  and  held  the  feeling,  and  submitted  it  to 
such  a  searching  scrutiny  as  he  was  capable  of  giving  it, 
he  might  have  doubted  whether  any  mother-instilled 
superstition  ever  struck  root  so  deep  as  the  depth  from 
which  that  seemed  at  least  to  come.  I  merely  suggest 
it.  The  feeling  was  a  faint  and  poor  one,  and  I  do  not 
care  to  reason  from  it.  I  would  not  v>-illingly  waste 
upon  small  arguments,  when  I  see  more  and  more  clearly 
that  our  paltriest  faults  and  dishonesties  need  one  and  the 
same  enormous  cure. 


74  PAUL  fABER. 

But  indeed  never  had  Faber  less  time  to  examine  him- 
self than  now,  had  he  been  so  inclined.  With  that  big 
wound  in  it,  he  would  as  soon  have  left  a  shell  in  the 
lady's  chamber  with  the  fuse  lighted,  as  her  arm  to  itself. 
He  did  not  leave  the  village  all  day.  He  went  to  see 
another  patient  in  it,  and  one  on  its  outskirts,  but  he  had 
his  dinner  at  the  little  inn  where  he  put  up  Ruber,  and 
all  night  long  he  sat  by  the  bedside  of  his  patient. 
There  the  lovely  white  face,  blind  like  a  statue  that 
never  had  eyes,  and  the  perfect  arm,  which  now  and 
then,  with  a  restless,  uneasy,  feeble  toss,  she  w^ould  fling 
over  the  counterpane,  the  arm  he  had  to  watch  as  the  very 
gate  of  death,  grew  into  his  heart.  He  dreaded  the 
moment  when  slic  would  open  her  eyes,  and  his  might 
no  longer  wander  at  will  over  her  countenance.  Again 
and  again  in  the  night  he  jiut  a  hand  under  her  head, 
and  held  a  cooling  draught  to  her  lips  ;  but  not  even 
when  she  drank  did  her  eyes  open  :  like  a  child  too  weak 
to  trust  itself,  therefore  free  of  all  anxiety  and  fear,  she 
took  whatever  came,  questioning  nothing.  He  sat  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  where,  with  the  slightest  movement,  he 
could,  through  the  opening  of  the  curtains,  see  her  per- 
fectly. 

By  some  change  of  position,  he  had  unknowingly  drawn 
one  of  them  back  a  little  from  between  her  and  hmi,  as 
he  sat  thinking  about  her.  The  candle  shone  full  upon 
his  face,  but  the  other  curtain  v\'as  between  the  candle  and 
his  patient.     Suddenly  she  opened  her  eyes. 

A  dream  had  been  with  her,  and  she  did  not  yet  know 
that  it  was  gone.  She  could  hardly  be  said  to  kiioii.' 
anything.  Fever  from  loss  of  blood  ;  uneasiness,  perhaps, 
from  the  presence  in  her  system  of  elements  elsewhere 
fashioned  and  strangely  foreign  to  its  economy ;  the 
remnants  of  sleep  and  of  the  dream  ;  the  bewilderment 
of  sudden  awaking  —all  had  combined  to  paralyze  her 
judgment,  and  give  her  imagination  full  career.  When 
she  opened  her  eyes,  she  saw  a  beautiful  face,  and  noth- 
ing else,  and  it  seemed   to  her  itself  the  source  of  the 


THE  CHAMBER  AT  THE  COTTAGE.  75 

light  by  which  slie  saw  it.  Her  dream  had  been  one  of 
great  trouble  ;  and  when  she  beheld  the  shining  coun- 
tenanre,  she  thought  it  was  the  face  of  the  Saviour  :  he 
was  looking  down  ujjon  her  heart,  which  he  held  in  his 
hand,  and  reading  all  that  was  written  there.  The  tears 
rushed  to  her  eyes,  and  the  next  moment  Faber  saw 
two  fountains  of  light  and  weeping  in  the  face  which 
had  been  but  as  of  loveliest  marble.  The  curtain  fell 
between  them,  and  the  lady  thought  the  vision  had 
vanished.  The  doctor  came  softly  through  the  dusk  to 
her  bedside.  He  felt  her  pulse,  looked  to  the  bandage 
on  her  arm,  gave  her  something  to  drink,  and  left  the 
room.  Presently  Mrs.  Puckridge  brought  her  some  beef- 
tea. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


Tin-:  minister's  garden. 

P  and  down  the  garden  jjaced  tlie  pastor, 
stung  by  the  gadflies  of  debt.  If  he  were 
in  London  he  could  sell  his  watch  and 
seals  ;  he  had  a  ring  somewhere,  too, — an 
antique,  worth  what  now  seemed  a  good 
deal  ;  but  his  wite  had  given  him  both.  Besides,  it 
would  cost  so  much  to  go  to  London,  and  he  had  no 
money.  Mr.  Drew,  doubtless,  would  lend  him  what  he 
vs-anted,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  ask  him.  If 
he  i^arted  with  them  in  Glaston,  they  would  be  put  in 
the  watchmaker's  window,  and  that  would  be  a  scandal — 
with  the  baptists  making  head  in  the  very  next  street !  For, 
notwithstanding  the  heartless  way  in  which  the  congrega- 
tionalists  had  treated  him,  theirs  was  the  cause  of 
scriptural  Christianity,  and  it  made  him  shudder  to 
think  of  bringing  the  smallest  discredit  upon  the  deno- 
min.ation.  The  church-butcher  was  indeed  a  v.-orse  terror 
to  him  than  Apollyon  had  been  to  Christian,  for  it  seemed 
to  his  faithlessness  that  not  even  the  weapon  of  Ail- 
prayer  was  equal  to  his  discomfiture ;  nothing  could 
render  him  harmless  but  the  payment  of  his  bill.  lie 
began   to  look  back  with   something  like   horror  ui>on 


THE  MIXISTER'S  GARDEN.  77 

the  sermons  he  had  preached  on  honest}' ;  for  how  would 
his  inabiHty  to  pay  his  debts  appear  in  the  eyes  of  those 
who  had  heard  them  ?  Oh  !  why  had  he  not  paid  for 
everything  as  they  had  it  ?  Then  when  the  time  came  that 
he  could  not  pay,  they  would  only  have  had  to  go  without, 
whereas  now,  there  was  the  bill  louring  at  the  back  of 
the  want ! 

When  Miss  Drake  returned  from  the  chapel,  she  found 
her  father  leaning  on  the  sun-dial,  where  she  had  left 
him.  To  all  appearance  he  had  not  moved.  He  knew 
her  step  but  did  not  stir. 

"  Father  !  "  she  said. 

"  It  is  a  hard  thing,  my  child,"  he  responded,  still  with- 
out moving,  "  when  the  valley  of  Humiliation  comes 
next  Lhe  river  of  Death,  and  no  land  of  Eeulah  between  ! 
I  had  my  good  things  in  my  youth,  and  now  I  have 
my  evil  things  !  " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  lovingly,  tenderly, 
worshipfully,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  As  you  see  me  now,  my  Dorothy,  my  God's-gift,  you 
would  hardly  believe  your  father  was  once  a  young  and 
popular  preacher,  ha,  ha  !  Fool  tl.at  I  was  !  I  thought 
they  prized  my  [)reaching,  and  loved  me  for  what  I 
taught  them.  I  thought  1  was  somebody  !  With  shame 
I  confess  it  !  Who  were  they,  or  what  was  their  j\idgment, 
to  fool  me  in  my  own  concerning  myself!  Their  praise 
was  indeed  a  fit  rock  for  me  to  build  my  shame 
upon." 

"  But,  father  dear,  what  is  even  a  sin  when  it  is  re- 
pented of?  " 

"  A  shame  for  ever,  my  child.  Our  Lord  did  not  cast 
out  even  an  apostle  for  liis  conceit  and  self-sufficiency, 
but  he  let  him  fall." 

"  He  has  not  let  you  fall,  father ! "  said  Dorothy, 
with  tearful  eyes. 

"  He  is  bringing  my  grey  hairs  with  sorrow  and  shame 
to  the  grave,  my  child." 

"  Why,  father  ! "  cried    the  girl,  shocked,  as  she  well 


78  FAUL  FABER. 

might  be,  at  his  words,  "  what  have  I  clone  to  make  you 
say  that  ?  " 

"  Done,  my  darling  !  ycu  done  ?  You  have  done 
nothing  but  righteousness  ever  since  you  could  do  any 
thing  !  You  have  been  like  a  mother  to  your  old  father. 
It  is  that  bill  !  that  horrid  butcher's  bill  ! " 

Dorothy  burst  out  laughing  through  her  disma}-,  and 
wept  and  laughed  together  for  more  than  a  minute  ere  she 
could  recover  herself. 

"  Father  !  you  dear  father  !  you're  too  good  to  live  ! 
Why,  there  are  forks  and  spoons  enough  in  the  house 
to  pay  that  paltry  bill  ! — not  to  mention  the  cream-jug 
which  is,  and  the  teapot  which  we  thought  was  silver, 
because  Lady  Sykes  gave  it  us.  ^Vhy  didn't  you  tell  me 
what  was  troubling  you,  father  dear  ?  " 

"  I  can't  bear — I  never  could  bear  to  owe  money.  I 
asked  the  man  for  his  bill  some  time  ago.  I  could  have 
]iaid  it  then,  though  it  wouldn't  have  left  me  a  pound 
The  moment  I  looked  at  it,  I  felt  as  if  the  Lord  had 
forsaken  me.  It  is  easy  for  you  to  bear  it ;  you  are  not 
\he  one  accountable.  I  am.  And  if  the  pawnbroker  or 
ihe  silversmith  does  stand  between  me  and  absolute  dis- 
honesty, yet  to  find  myself  in  such  a  miserable  condition 
with  next  to  nothing  between  us  and  the  workhouse,  may 
well  make  me  doubt  whether  I  have  been  a  true  servant 
of  the  Lord,  for  surely  such  shall  never  be  ashamed  ! 
During  these  last  days  the  enemy  has  even  dared  to 
tempt  me  with  the  question,  whether,  after  all,  these 
unbelievers  may  not  be  right,  and  the  God  that  ruleth  in 
the  earth  a  mere  projection  of  what  the  conscience  and 
heart  bribe  the  imagination  to  construct  for  them  !  " 

"  I  wouldn't  think  that  before  I  was  driven  to  it, 
father,"  said  Dorothy,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  said,  for 
his  doubt  shot  a  poisoned  arrow  of  dcsjiair  into  the  very 
heart  of  her  heart. 

He,  never  doubting  the  security  of  his  child's  faith,  had 
no  slightest  suspicion  into  what  a  sore  spot  his  words 
had  carried  torture.     He  did  not  know  that  the  genius 


THE  MINISTER'S  GARDEN.  75 

of  doubt— shall  I  call  him  angel  or  demon?— had 
knocked  at  her  door,  had  called  through  her  window  ; 
that  words  dropped  by  Faber,  indicating  that  science 
was  against  all  idea  of  a  God,  and  the  confidence 
of  their  tone,  had  conjured  up  in  her  bosom  hollow  fears, 
faint  dismays,  and  stinging  questions.  Ready  to  trust, 
and  incapable  of  arrogance,  it  was  hard  for  her  to  imagine 
how  a  man  like  Mr.  Faber,  upright  and  kind  and  self- 
denying,  could  say  such  things  if  he  did  not  know  them 
true.  The  very  word  science  appeared  to  carry  an  awful 
authority.  She  did  not  understand  that  it  was  only 
because  Science  had  never  come  closer  to  him  than  the 
mere  sight  of  the  fringe  of  the  outermost  folds  of  the  taber- 
nacle of  his  presence,  that  her  worshippers  dared  assert 
there  was  no  God.  She  did  not  yet  perceive  that  nothing 
ever  science  could  find,  could  possibly  be  the  God  of 
men  ;  that  science  is  only  the  human  reflex  of  truth,_  and 
that  truth  itself  cannot  be  measured  by  what  of  it  is  re- 
flected from  the  mirror  of  the  understanding.  She  did 
not  see  that  no  incapacity  of  science  to  find  God,  even 
touched  the  matter  of  honest  men's  belief  that  he  made 
his  dwelling  with  the  humble  and  contrite.  Nothing  she 
had  learned  from  her  father  either  provided  her  with 
reply,  or  gave  her  hope  of  finding  argument  of  discom- 
fiture ;  nothing  of  all  that  went  on  at  chapel  or  church 
seemed  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  questions  that 
presented  themselves. 

Such  a  rough  shaking  of  so-called  fliith,  has  been  of 
endless  service  to  many,  chiefly  by  exposing  the  insecurity 
of  ail  foundations  of  belief,  save  that  which  is  discovered 
in  digging  with  the  spade  of  obedience.  Well  indeed  is 
it  for  all  honest  souls  to  be  thus  shaken,  who  have  been 
building  upon  doctrines  concerning  Christ,  upon  faith, 
upon  experiences,  upon  anything  but  Christ  himself,  as 
revealed  by  himself  and  his  spirit  to  all  who  obey  him, 
and  so  revealing  the  Father — a  doctrine  just  as  foolish  as 
the  rest  to  men  like  Faber,  but  the  power  of  God  and  the 
wisdom  of  God  to  such  who  know  thems*;lves  lifted  out 


Ho  PAUL   FABER. 

of  darkness  and  an  ever-present  sense  of  something  wrong 
— if  it  be  only  into  twilight  and  hope. 

Dorothy  was  a  gift  of  God,  and  the  trouble  that  gnawed 
at  her  heart  she  would  not  let  out  to  gnaw  at  her  father's. 

"  There's  Ducky  come  to  call  us  to  dinner,"  she  said, 
and  rising,  went  to  meet  her. 

"  Dinner  !  "  groaned  Mr.  Drake,  and  would  have  re- 
mained where  he  was.  But  for  Dorothy's  sake  he  rose 
and  followed  her,  feeling  almost  like  a  repentant  thief 
who  had  stolen  the  meal. 


CHAPTEIl  XMT. 


THE  HEATH  AT  NESIT.EY. 


)N  the  Monday  morning,  Mr.  Bevis's  groom 
came  to  the  rectory  with  a  note  for  the 
curate,  begging  him  and  Mrs.  Wingfold  to 
dine  at  Nestley  the  same  day  if  possible. 
"  I  know,"  the  rector  wrote,  "that  Mon- 
day is,  or  ought  to  be,  an  idle  day  with  you,  and  I  write 
instead  of  my  wife,  because  I  want  to  see  you  on  business. 
I  would  have  come  to  you,  had  I  not  had  reasons  for 
wishing  to  see  you  here  rather  than  at  Glaston.  The 
earlier  you  can  come  and  the  longer  you  can  stay  the 
better,  but  you  shall  go  as  soon  after  an  early  dinner  as 
you  please.  You  are  a  bee  and  I  am  a  drone.  God 
bless  you.  John  Bevis." 

The  curate  took  the  note  to  his  wife.  Things  were  at 
once  arranged,  an  answer  of  ready  obedience  committed 
to  the  groom,  and  Helen's  pony-carriage  ordered  out. 

The  curate  called  everything  Helen's.  He  had  a  great 
contempt  for  the  spirit  of  men  who  marry  rich  wives  and 
then  lord  it  over  their  money,  as  if  they  had  done  a  fine 
thing  in  getting  hold  of  it,  and  the  wife  had  been  but 
keeping  it  from  its  rightful  owner.  They  do  not  know 
what  a  confession  their  whole  bearing  is,  thai,  but  for  their 
wives'  money,  they  would  be  the  merest,  poorest  nobodies, 
c- 


S2  PAUL  FABER. 

So  small  are  they  that  even  that  suffices  to  make  them 
feel  big  !  But  Helen  did  not  like  it,  especially  when  he 
would  ask  her  if  he  might  have  this  or  that,  or  do  so  and 
so.  Any  common  man  who  heard  him  would  have 
thought  him  afraid  of  his  wife  ;  but  a  large-hearted 
woman  would  at  once  have  understood,  as  did  Helen, 
that  it  came  all  of  his  fine  sense  of  truth,  and  reality,  and 
obligation.  Still  Helen  would  have  had  him  forget  all 
such  matters  in  connection  with  her.  They  were  one 
beyond  obligation.  She  had  given  him  herself,  and  what 
were  bank-notes  after  that  ?  But  he  thought  of  her 
always  as  an  angel  who  had  taken  him  in,  to  comfort, 
and  bless,  and  cherish  him  with  love,  that  he  might  the 
,  better  do  the  work  of  his  God  and  hers ;  therefore  his 
obligation  to  her  was  his  glory. 

"  Your  ponies  go  splendidly  to-day,  Helen,"  he  said,  as 
admiringly  he  watched  how  her  hands  on  the  reins 
seemed  to  mould  their  movements. 

They  were  the  tiniest,  daintiest  things,  of  the  smallest 
•:)/er  seen  in  harness,  but  with  all  the  ways  of  big  horses, 
therefore  amusing  in  their  very  grace.  They  were  the 
delight  of  the  children  of  Glaston  and  the  villages  round. 

"  Why  ziiill  you  call  them  my  ponies,  Thomas  ? " 
returned  his  wife,  just  sufficiently  vexed  to  find  it  easy  to 
pretend  to  be  cross.  "  I  don't  see  what  good  I  have  got 
by  marrying  you,  if  everything  is  to  be  mine  all  the 
same  ! " 

"  Don't  be  unreasonable,  my  Helen  ! "  said  the 
curate,  looking  into  the  lovely  eyes  whose  colours  seemed 
a  little  blown  about  in  their  rings.  "  Don't  you  see  it  is 
my  way  of  feeling  to  myself  how  much,  and  with  Avhat  a 
halo  about  them,  they  are  mine  ?  If  I  had  bought  them 
with  my  own  money,  I  should  hardly  care  for  them. 
Thank  God,  they  are  not  mine  that  way,  or  in  any  way 
like  that  way.  You  are  mine,  my  life,  and  they  are 
yours — mine  therefore  because  they  are  about  you  like 
your  clothes  or  your  watch.  They  are  mine  as  your 
handkerchief  and  your  glo\es  are  mine — through  wor- 


THE  HE  A  Til  A  T  NESTLE  Y.  83 

shipping  love.  Listen  to  reason.  If  a  thing  is  yours 
it  is  ten  times  more  mine  than  if  I  had  bought  it,  for, 
just  because  it  is  yours,  I  am  able  to  possess  it  as  the 
meek,  and  not  the  land-owners,  inherit  the  earth.  It 
makes  having  such  a  deep  and  high — indeed  a  perfect 
thing  !  I  take  pleasure  without  an  atom  of  shame  in  every 
rich  thing  you  have  brought  me.  Do  you  think,  if  you 
died,  and  I  carried  your  watch,  I  should  ever  cease  to  feel 
the  watch  was  yours  ?  Just  so  they  are  your  ponies ; 
and  if  you  don't  like  me  to  say  so,  you  can  contradict 
me  every  time,  you  know,  all  the  same." 

"  I  know  people  will  think  I  am  like  the  lady  we  heard 
of  the  other  day,  who  told  her  husband  the  sideboard  was 
hers,  not  his.  Thomas,  I  Jiate  to  look  like  the  rich  one, 
when  all  that  makes  life  worth  living,  or  fit  to  be  lived, 
was  and  is  given  me  by  you." 

"  No,  no,  no,  my  darling !  don't  say  that ;  you  terrify 
me.  I  was  but  the  postman  that  brought  you  the  good 
news." 

"  Well !  and  what  else  with  me  and  the  ponies  and  the 
money  and  all  that  ?  Did  I  make  the  ponies  ?  Or  did  I 
even  earn  the  money  that  bought  them  ?  It  is  only  the 
money  my  father  and  brother  have  done  w4th.  Don't 
make  me  look  as  if  I  did  not  behave  like  a  lady  to  my 
own  husband,  Thomas." 

"  Well,  my  beautiful,  I'll  make  up  for  all  my  wrongs  by 
ordering  you  about  as  if  I  were  the  Marquis  of  Saluzzo, 
and  you  the  patient  Grisel." 

"  I  wish  you  would.  You  don't  order  me  about  half 
enough." 

"  I'll  try  to  do  better.     You  shall  see." 

Nestley  was  a  lovely  place,  and  the  house  was  old 
enough  to  be  quite  respectable — one  of  those  houses 
with  a  history  and  a  growth,  which  are  getting  rarer  every 
day  as  the  ugly  temples  of  mammon  usurp  their  places. 
It  was  dusky,  cool,  and  soml)rc, — a  little  shabby,  indeed, 
which  fell  in  harmoniously  with  its  peculiar  charm,  and 
indeed  added  to  it.      A  lawn,   not  immaculate   of  the 


84  PAUL  PABER. 

sweet  fault  of  daisies,  sank  slowly  to  a  babbling  little  tribu- 
tary of  the  Lythe,  and  beyond  were  fern-covered  slopes, 
and  heather,  and  furze,  and  pine-woods.  The  rector  was 
a  sensible  Englishman,  who  objected  to  have  things  done 
after  the  taste  of  his  gardener  instead  of  his  own.  He 
loved  grass  like  a  village  poet,  and  would  have  no  flower- 
beds cut  in  his  lawn.  Neither  would  he  have  any  flowers 
planted  in  the  summer  to  be  taken  up  again  before  the 
winter.  He  would  have  no  cockney  gardening  about 
his  place,  he'said.  Perhaps  that  was  partly  why  he  never 
employed  any  but  his  old  cottagers  about  the  grounds  ; 
and  the  result  was  that  for  half  the  show  he  had  twice 
the  loveliness.  His  ambition  was  to  have  every  possible 
English  garden  flower. 

As  soon  as  his  visitors  arrived,  he  and  his  curate  went 
away  together,  and  Mrs.  Wingfold  was  shown  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, where  was  Mrs.  Bevis  with  her  knitting.  A 
greater  contrast  than  that  of  the  two  ladies  then  seated  to- 
gether in  the  long  low  dusky  room,  it  were  not  easy  to 
imagine.  I  am  greatly  puzzled  to  think  what  conscious  good 
in  life  Mrs.  Bevis  enjoyed — just  as  I  am  puzzled  to  under- 
stand the  eagerness  with  which  horses,  not  hungry,  and  evi- 
dently in  full  enjoyment  of  the  sun  and  air  and  easy  ex- 
ercise, will  yet  hurry  to  their  stables  the  moment  their 
heads  are  turned  in  the  direction  of  them.  Is  it  that  they 
have  no  hope  in  the  unknown,  and  then  alone,  in  all 
the  vicissitudes  of  their  day,  know  their  destination? 
Would  but  some  good  kind  widow,  of  the  same  type  with 
Mrs.  Bevis,  without  children,  tell  me  wherefore  she  is 
unwilliag  to  die  !  She  has  no  special  friend  to  whom  she 
unbosoms  herself — indeed,  so  far  as  any  one  knows,  she 
has  never  had  anything  of  which  to  unbosom  herself  She 
has  no  pet — dog  or  cat  or  monkey  or  macaw,  and  has  never 
been  seen  hug  a  child.  She  never  reads  poetry — I  doubt 
if  she  kno7/s  more  than  the  first  line  of  Ho7i'  doih.  She 
reads  neither  novels  no-:  history,  and  looks  at  the  news- 
paper as  if  the  type  were  fly-spots.  Yet  there  she  sits  smil- 
ing! Why?  oh!  why?  Probably  she  does  not  know.  Never 


THE  J/EA TIT  A T  NES 7 LEY.  85 

did  question,  not  to  say  doubt,  cause  those  soft  square- 
ended  fingers  to  move  one  atom  less  measuredly  in  the 
construction  of  Mrs.  Bevis's  muffetee,  the  sole  knittable 
thing  her  nature  seemed  capable  of  Never  was  sock 
seen  on  her  needles ;  the  turning  of  the  heel  was  too 
much  for  her.  That  she  had  her  virtues,  however,  was 
plain  from  the  fact  that  her  servants  stayed  with  her  years 
and  years  ;  and  I  can,  besides,  from  observation  set  down 
a  few  of  them.  She  never  asked  her  husband  what  he 
would  have  for  dinner.  When  he  was  ready  to  go  out 
with  her,  she  was  always  ready  too.  She  never  gave  one 
true  reason,  and  kept  back  a  truer — possibly  there  was 
not  room  for  two  thoughts  at  once  in  her  brain.  She 
never  screwed  down  a  dependant;  never  kept  small 
tradespeople  waiting  for  their  money ;  never  refused  a 
reasonable  request.  In  fact,  she  was  a  stuffed  bag  of 
virtues ;  the  bag  was  of  no  great  size,  but  neither  were 
the  virtues  insignificant.  There  are  dozens  of  sorts  of 
people  I  should  feel  a  far  stronger  objection  to  living  with; 
but  what  puzzles  me  is  how  she  contrives  to  live  with  her- 
self, never  questioning  the  comfort  of  the  arriingement,  or 
desiring  it  should  one  day  come  to  an  end.  Surely  she 
must  be  deep,  and  knows  some  secret ! 

For  the  other  lady,  Helen  Lingard  that  vras,  she  had 
since  her  marriage  altered  considerably  in  the  right  direc- 
tion. She  used  to  be  a  litde  dry,  a  litde  sdff,  and  a  litde 
stately.  To  the  last  I  should  be  far  from  objecting,  were 
it  not  that  her  stateliness  was  of  the  mechanical  sort,  be- 
longing to  the  spine,  and  not  to  a  soul  uplift.  Now  it 
had  left  her  spine  and  settled  in  a  soul  that  scorned  the 
low  and  loved  the  lowly.  Her  step  was  lighter,  her  voice 
more  flexible,  her  laugh  much  merrier  and  more  frequent, 
for  now  her  heart  was  gay.  Her  husband  praised  God 
when  he  heard  her  laugh  ;  the  laugh  suggested  the  praise, 
for  itself  rang  like  praises.  She  would  pull  up  her  ponies  in 
the  middle  of  the  street,  and  at  a  word  or  sign,  the  carriage 
would  be  full  of  children.  \Vhoever  could  might  scramble 
in  till  it  was  full.    At  the  least  rudeness,  the  offender  would 


86  PAUL  FABER. 

be.  ordered  to  the  pavement,  and  would  always  obey, 
generally  weeping.  She  would  drive  two  or  three  times 
up  and  down  the  street  with  her  load,  then  turn  it  out, 
and  take  another,  and  another,  until  as  many  as  she 
judged  fit  had  had  a  taste  of  the  pleasure.  This  she  had 
learned  from  seeing  a  costermonger  fill  his  cart  with  child- 
ren, and  push  behind,  while  the  donkey  in  front  pulled 
them  along  the  street,  to  the  praise  and  glory  of  God. 

She  was  overbearing  in  one  thing,  and  that  was  sub- 
mission. Once,  when  I  was  in  her  husband's  study,  she 
made  a  remark  on  something  he  had  said  or  written,  I 
forget  what,  for  which  her  conscience  of  love  immediately 
smote  her.  She  threw  herself  on  the  floor,  crept  under 
the  writing  table  at  which  he  sat,  and  clasped  his  knees. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  husband,"  she  said  sorrowfully. 

"  Helen,''  he  cried,  laughing  rather  oddly,  "  you  will 
make  a  consummate  idiot  of  me  before  you  have  done." 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  pleaded. 

"  I  can't  forgive  you.  How  can  I  forgive  Avhere  there 
is  positively  nothing  to  be  forgiven  ?  " 

"I  don't  care  what  you  say  ;  I  know  better;  you  must 
forgive  me." 

"  Nonsense  ! " 

"  Forgive  me." 

"  Do  get  up.     Don't  be  silly." 

"Forgive  me.     I  will  lie  here  till  you  do." 

"  But  your  remark  was  perfectly  true." 

"It  makes  no  difference.  I  ought  not  to  have  said 
it  like  that.     Forgive  me,  or  I  will  cry." 

I  will  tell  no  more  of  it.  Perhaps  it  is  silly  of  mc  lo 
tell  any,  but  it  moved  me  strangely. 

I  have  said  enough  to  show  there  was  a  contrast  between 
the  two  ladies.  As  to  what  passed  in  the  way  of  talk,  that, 
from  pure  incapacity,  I  dare  not  attempt  to  report.  I  did 
hear  them  talk  once,  and  they  laughed  too,  but  not  one 
salient  point  could  I  lay  hold  of  by  which  afterv»'ards  to  re- 
call their  conversation.  Do  I  dislike  Mrs.  Bevis?  Not  in 
the  smallest  detjree.     I  could  read  a  book  I  loved  in  her 


THE  HE  A  7H  A  T  NESTLE  Y.  87 

presence.     That  would  be  impossible  to  me  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Mrs.  Ramshorn. 

Mrs.  Wingfold  had  developed  a  great  faculty  for  liking 
people.  It  was  quite  a  fresh  shoot  of  her  nature,  for  she 
had  before  been  rather  of  a  repellent  disposition.  I  wish 
there  were  more,  and  amongst  them  some  of  the  best  of 
people,  similarly  changed.  Surely  the  latter  would  soon  be, 
if  once  they  had  a  glimpse  of  how  much  the  coming  of 
the  kingdom  is  retarded  by  defect  of  courtesy.  The 
]ieople  I  mean  are  slow  to  like,  and  until  they  come  to 
///Cr,  they  seem  to  dislike.  I  have  known  such  whose 
manner  was  fit  to  imply  entire  disapprobation  of  the  ver)' 
existence  of  those  upon  whom  they  looked  for  the  first 
time.  They  might  then  have  been  saying  to  themselves, 
"  /  would  never  have  created  such  people  !  "  Had  I 
not  known  them,  I  could  not  have  imagined  them  lovers 
of  God  or  man,  though  they  were  of  both.  True  courtesy, 
that  is,  courtesy  born  of  a  true  heart,  is  a  most  lovely, 
and  absolutely  indispensable  grace — one  that  nobody  but 
a  Christian  can  thoroughly  develop.  God  grant  us  a 
"coming-on  disposition,"  as  Shakspere  calls  it.  Who 
shall  tell  whose  angel  stands  nearer  to  the  face  of  the 
Father?  Should  my  brother  stand  lower  in  the  social  scale 
than  I,  shall  I  not  be  the  more  tender,  and  respectful, 
and  self-refusing  towards  him,  that  God  has  placed  him 
there  who  may  all  the  time  be  greater  than  I  ?  A  year 
before,  Helen  could  hardly  endure  doughy  Mrs.  Bevis, 
but  now  she  had  found  something  to  like  in  her,  and  there 
was  confidence  and  faith  between  them.  So  there  they 
sat,  the  elder  lady  meandering  on,  and  Helen,  who  had 
taken  care  to  bring  some  work  with  her,  every  now  and 
then  casting  a  bright  glance  in  her  face,  or  saying  two  or 
three  words  with  a  smile,  or  asking  some  simple  cjuestion. 
Mrs.  Bevis  talked  chiefly  of  the  supposed  affairs  and  un- 
doubted illness  of  Miss  Meredith,  concerning  both  of 
which  rather  straiige  reports  had  reached  her. 

Meantime  the  gentlemen  were  walking  through  the  park 
in  earnest  conversation.     They  crossed  the  little  brook 


8S  PAUL  FABER. 

and  climbed  lo  the  heath  on  the  other  side.  There  the 
rector  stood,  and  turning  to  his  companion,  said : 

"  It's  rather  late  in  the  day  for  a  fellow  to  wake  up,  ain't 
it,  Wingfold  ?  You  see  I  was  brought  up  to  hate  fanati- 
cism, and  that  may  have  blinded  me  to  something  you 
have  seen  and  got  a  hold  of.  I  wish  I  could  just  see 
what  it  is,  but  I  never  was  much  of  a  theologian.  Indeed 
I  suspect  I  am  rather  stupid  in  some  things.  But  I  would 
fain  try  to  look  my  duty  in  the  face.  It's  not  for  me  to 
start  up  and  teach  the  people,  because  I  ought  to  have 
been  doing  it  all  this  time  :  I've  got  nothing  to  teach 
them.  God  only  knows  whether  I  haven't  been  breaking 
every  one  of  the  commandments  I  used  to  read  to  them 
every  Sunday." 

"But  God  does  know,  sir,"  said  the  curate,  with 
even  more  than  his  usual  respect  in  his  tone,  "  and  that 
is  well,  for  otherwise  we  might  go  on  breaking  them  for 
ever." 

The  rector  gave  him  a  sudden  look,  full  in  the  face,  but 
said  nothing,  seemed  to  fall  a  thinking,  and  for  some  time 
was  silent. 

"There's  one  thing  clear,"  he  resumed:  "I've  been 
taking  pay,  and  doing  no  work.  I  used  to  think  I  was 
at  least  doing  no  harm— that  I  was  merely  using  one  of 
the  privileges  of  my  position  :  I  not  only  paid  a  curate, 
but  all  the  repair  the  churcli  ever  got  was  from  me. 
Now,  however,  for  the  first  time,  I  reflect  that  the  money 
was  not  given  me  for  that.  Doubtless  it  has  been  all 
the  better  for  my  congregation,  but  that  is  only  an 
instance  of  the  good  God  brings  out  of  evil,  and  the 
evil  is  mine  still.  Then,  again,  there's  all  this  property 
my  wife  brought  me  :  what  have  I  done  with  that  ?  The 
kingdom  of  heaven  has  not  come  a  hair's-breadth  nearer 
for  my  being  a  parson  of  the  church  of  England  ;  neither 
are  the  people  of  England  a  shade  the  better  thai  I  am 
one  of  her  landowners.  It  is  surely  time  I  did  something 
Wingfold,  my  boy  !  " 

"I  think  it  is,  sir,"  answered  the  curate. 


THE  HE  A  Til  A  T  NTS  TLB  V.  S9 

"Then,  in  God's  name,  what  am  I  to  do?"  returned 
the  rector,  ahnost  testily. 

"  Nobody  can  answer  that  question  but  yourself,  sir," 
replied  Wingfold. 

"  It's  no  use  my  trying  to  preach.  I  could  not  write  a 
sermon  if  I  took  a  month  to  it.  If  it  were  a  paper  on 
the  management  of  a  stable,  now,  I  think  I  could  write 
that— respectably.  I  know  what  I  am  about  there.  I 
could  even  vrrite  one  on  some  of  the  diseases  of  horses 
and  bullocks — but  that's  not  what  the  church  pays  me 
for.  There's  one  thing  though — it  comes  over  me  strong 
that  I  should  like  to  read  prayers  in  the  old  place  again. 
I  want  to  pray,  and  I  don't  know  how ;  and  it  seems 
as  if  I  could  shove  in  some  of  my  own  if  I  had  them 
going  through  my  head  once  again.  I  tell  you  what : 
we  won't  make  any  fuss  about  it — what's  in  a  name  ! — 
but  from  this  day  you  shall  be  incumbent,  and  I  will  be 
curiite.  You  shall  preach — or  what  you  please,  and  I 
shall  read  the  prayers  or  not,  just  as  you  please.  Try 
what  you  can  make  of  me,  ^^'ingfold.  Don't  ask  me 
to  do  what  I  can't,  but  help  me  to  do  what  I  can.  Look 
here — here's  what  I've  been  thinking — it  came  to  me 
last  night  as  I  was  walking  about  here  after  coming  from 
Glaston  :— here,  in  this  corner  of  the  parish,  we  are  a 
long  way  from  church.  In  the  village  there,  there  is  no 
place  of  worship  except  a  little  methodist  one.  There 
isn't  one  of  their — local  preachers,  I  believe  they  call 
them — that  don't  preach  a  deal  better  than  I  could 
if  I  tried  ever  so  much.  It's  vulgar  enough  sometimes, 
they  tell  me,  but  then  they  preach,  and  mean  it.  Now  I 
might  mean  it,  but  I  shouldn't  preach  ; — for  what  is  it 
to  people  at  work  all  tlic  week  to  have  a  man  read  a 
sermon  to  them  ?  Vou  might  as  vn-cU  drive  a  nail  by 
pushing  it  with  the  palm  of  your  hand.  Those  men  use 
the  hammer.  Ill-bred  conceited  fellows,  some  of  them, 
I  happen  to  know,  but  they  know  their  business.  Now 
why  shouldn't  I  build  a  little  place  here  on  my  own 
ground,  and  get  the  bishop  to  consecrate  it  ?     I  woulc 


90  PAUL  FABER. 

read  prayers  for  you  in  the  abbey  church  in  the  morning, 
and  then  you  would  not  be  too  tired  to  come  and  preach 
here  in  the  evening.  I  would  read  the  prayers  here 
too,  if  you  liked." 

"  I  think  your  scheme  delightful,"  answered  the  curate, 
after  a  moment's  pause.  "  I  would  only  venture  to  sug- 
gest one  improvement — that  you  should  not  have  your 
chapel  consecrated.  You  will  find  it  ever  so  much  more 
useful.  It  will  then  be  dedicated  to  the  God  of  the  whole 
earth,  instead  of  the  God  of  the  church  of  England." 

"Why!  ain't  they  the  same?"  cried  the  rector,  half 
aghast,  as  he  stopped  and  faced  round  on  the  curate. 

"Yes,"  answered  Wingfold  ;  "and  all  will  be  well 
when  the  church  of  England  really  recognizes  the  fact. 
Meantime  its  idea  of  God  is  such  as  will  not  at  all  fit  the 
God  of  the  whole  earth.  And  that  is  v\hy  she  is  in 
bondage.  Except  she  burst  tlie  bonds  of  her  own 
selfishness,  she  will  burst  her  heart  and  go  to  pieces, 
as  her  enemies  would  ha^•e  her.  Every  piece  will  be 
alive,  though,  I  trust,  more  or  less." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  the  rector.  "  What 
has  all  that  to  do  with  the  consecration  of  my  chapel?" 

"  If  you  don't  consecrate  it,"  answered  Wingfold,  "it 
\\\\\  remain  a  portion  of  the  universe,  a  thoroughfare  for 
all  divine  influences,  open  as  the  heavens  to  every  wind 
that  blows.     Consecration — " 

Here  the  curate  checked  himself.  He  was  going  to 
say — "is  another  Avord  for  congestion," — but  he  bethought 
himself  what  a  wicked  thing  it  would  be,  for  the  satisfac- 
tion of  speaking  his  mind,  to  disturb  that  of  his  rector, 
brooding  over  a  good  work. 

"  But,"  he  concluded  therefore,  "  tliere  will  be  time 
enough  to  think  about  that.  The  scheme  is  a  delightful 
one.  Apart  from  it,  however,  altogether — if  you  would 
but  read  i)rayers  in  your  own  church,  it  would  wonderfully 
.vtrengthen  my  hands.  Only  I  am  afraid  I  should  shock 
]-ou  sometimes." 

"  I  M-ili  take  my  chance  of  that.     If  you  do,  I  will  toll 


THE  HE  A  TH  A  T  XESTLE  Y.  9 1 

you  of  it.  And  if  I  do  what  you  don't  like,  you  must  tell 
me  of  it.  I  trust  neither  of  us  will  find  the  other 
incapable  of  understanding  his  neighbour's  position." 

They  walked  to  the  spot  which  the  rector  had  already 
in  his  mind  as  the  most  suitable  for  the  projected  chapel. 
It  was  a  bit  of  gently  rising  ground,  near  one  of  the  gates, 
whence  they  could  see  the  whole  of  the  little  village  of 
Owlkirk.  One  of  the  nearest  cottages  was  that  of  Mrs. 
Puckridge.  They  saw  the  doctor  ride  in  at  the  other 
end  of  the  street,  stop  there,  fasten  his  horse  to  the 
paling,  and  go  in. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


thf:  garden  at  owlkirk. 


)0  sooner  had  Faber  left  the  cottage  that  same 
morning,  than  the  foohsh  Mrs.  Puckridgc 
proceeded  to  pour  out  to  the  patient,  still 
agitated  both  with  her  dream  and  her  waking 
vision,  all  the  terrible  danger  she  had  been 
in,  and  the  marvellous  way  in  which  the  doctor  had 
brought  her  back  from  the  threshold  of  death.  Every 
drop  of  the  little  blood  in  her  body  seemed  to  rush  to 
her  face,  then  back  to  her  heart,  leaving  behind  it  a  look 
of  terror.  She  covered  her  face  with  the  sheet,  and  lay 
so  long  without  moving,  that  her  nurse  was  alarmed. 
When  she  drew  the  sheet  back,  she  found  her  in  a  faint, 
and  it  was  with  great  difficulty  she  brought  her  out  of  it. 
But  not  one  word  could  she  get  from  her.  She  did  not 
seem  even  to  hear  what  she  said.  Presently  she  grew 
restless,  and  soon  her  flushed  cheek  and  bright  eye 
indicated  an  increase  of  fever.  When  Faber  saw  her,  he 
was  much  disappointed,  perceived  at  once  that  something 
had  excited  her,  and  strongly  suspected  that,  for  all  her 
promises,  Mrs.  Puckridge  had  betrayed  the  means  by 
which  he  recovered  her. 

He  said  to  himself  that  he  had  had  no  choice,  but  then 
neither  had  the  lady,  and  the  thing  might  be  hateful  ij 


THE  GARDEN  AT  OWLKIRK.  93 

her.  She  might  be  in  love,  and  then  how  she  must  abom- 
inate the  business,  and  detest  him  !  It  was  horrible  to 
think  of  her  knowing  it.  But  for  knowing  it,  she  would 
never  be  a  whit  the  worse,  for  he  never  had  a  day's 
illness  in  his  life,  and  knew  of  no  taint  in  his  family. 

When  she  saw  him  approach  her  bedside,  a  look  re- 
minding him  of  the  ripple  of  a  sudden  cold  gust  passing 
with  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  over  still  water,  swept  across 
her  face.  She  closed  her  eyes,  and  turned  a  little  from 
him.  What  colour  she  had,  came  and  went  painfully. 
Cursing  in  his  heart  the  faithlessness  of  Mrs.  Puckridge, 
he  assumed  his  coldest,  hardest  professional  manner,  felt 
her  pulse  with  the  gentlest,  yet  most  peremptoiy  inquiry, 
gave  her  attendant  some  authoritative  directions,  and 
left  her,  saying  he  would  call  again  in  the  afternoon. 

During  seven  days  he  visited  her  twice  a  day.  He 
had  good  cause  to  be  anxious,  and  her  recovery  was  very 
slow.  Once  and  again  appeared  threatenings  of  the 
primary  complaint,  while,  from  the  tardiness  with  which 
her  veins  refilled,  he  feared  for  her  lungs.  During  al) 
these  visits,  hardly  a  word  beyond  the  most  necessary 
passed  between  them.  After  that  time  they  were  reduced 
to  one  a  day.  Ever  as  the  lady  gi'ew  stronger,  she 
seemed  to  become  colder,  and  her  manner  grew  more 
distant.  After  a  fortnight,  he  again  reduced  them  to  one 
in  two  days — very  unwillingly,  for  by  that  time  she  had 
come  to  occupy  nearly  as  much  of  his  thoughts  as  all  the 
rest  of  his  patients  together.  She  made  him  feel  that  his 
visits  were  less  than  welcome  to  her,  except  for  the  help 
they  brought  her,  allowed  him  no  insight  into  her  char- 
acter or  ways  of  thinking,  behaved  to  him  indeed  with 
such  restraint,  that  he  could  recall  no  expression  of  her 
face  the  memory  of  which  drew  him  to  dwell  upon  it;  yet 
her  face  and  form  possessed  him  with  their  mere  per- 
fection. He  had  to  set  himself  sometimes  to  get  rid  of 
what  seemed  all  but  her  very  presence,  for  it  threatened 
to  unfit  him  for  the  riglit  discharge  of  his  duties.  He  was 
haunted  with  the  form  to  which  he  had  given  a  renewal  of 


91  PAL-IL  FABEk. 

life,  as  a  murderer  is  haunted  with  tlie  form  of  tlie  man 
he  has  killed.  In  those  marvellous  intervals  betwixt  sleep 
and  waking,  when  the  soul  is  like  a  camera  obsciira,  into 
which  throng  shapes  unbidden,  hers  had  displaced  all 
others,  and  came  constantly — now  flashing  with  feverous 
radiance,  now  pale  and  bloodless  as  death  itself  But 
ever  and  always  her  countenance  wore  a  look  of  aversion. 
She  seemed,  in  those  visions,  to  regard  him  as  a  vile 
necromancer,  who  first  cast  her  into  the  sepulchre,  and 
then  brought  her  back  by  some  hellish  art.  She  had  fasci- 
nated him.  But  he  would  not  allow  that  he  was  in  love 
with  her.  A  man  may  be  fascinated  and  hate.  A  man 
is  not  necessarily  in  love  with  the  woman  whose  form 
haunts  him.  So  said  Faber  to  himself;  and  I  cannot  yet  tell 
whether  he  was  in  love  with  her  or  not.  I  do  not  know 
where  the  individuality  of  love  commences — when  love 
begins  to  be  love.  He  must  have  been  a  good  way  to- 
wards that  point,  however,  to  have  thus  betaken  himself 
to  denial.  He  was  the  more  interested  to  prove  himself 
free,  that  he  feared,  almost  believed,  there  was  a  lover 
concerned,  and  that  was  the  reason  she  hated  him  so 
severely  for  what  he  had  done. 

He  had  long  come  to  the  conclusion  that  circumstances 
had  straitened  themselves  around  her.  Experience  had 
given  him  a  keen  eye,  and  he  had  noted  several  things 
about  her  dress.  For  one  thing,  while  he  had  observed 
that  her  under-clothing  was  peculiarly  dainty,  he  had 
once  or  twice  caught  a  glimpse  of  such  an  incongruity 
as  he  was  compelled  to  set  down  to  poverty.  Besides, 
what  reason  in  which  poverty  bore  no  part,  could  a  lady 
have  for  being  alone  in  a  poor  country  lodging,  without 
even  a  maid  ?  Indeed,  might  it  not  be  the  consciousnesi 
Df  the  peculiarity  of  her  position,  and  no  dislike  to  him. 
that  made  her  treat  him  with  such  impenetrable  polite 
ness  ?     Might  she  not  well  dread  being  misunderstood  ? 

She  would  be  wanting  to  pay  him  for  his  attendance — 
and  what  was  he  to  do  ?  He  must  let  her  pay  something, 
or  she  would  consider  herself  still  more  grievously  wronged 


TlliL  GAKL'L U  A  'I'  Oil I.KIRK.  95 

by  him,  but  how  was  he  to  take  the  money  from  her 
hand?  It  was  very  hard  that  ephemeral  creatures  of  the 
earth,  born  but  to  die,  to  gleam  out  upon  the  black 
curtain  and  vanish  again,  might  not,  for  the  brief  time 
the  poor  yet  glorious  bubble  swelled  and  thiobbed,  offer 
and  accept  from  eacli  other  even  a  few  sun-beams  in 
which  to  dance  !  Would  not  the  inevitable  rain  beat 
them  down  at  night,  and  "  mass  them  into  the  common 
clay?"  How  then  could  they  hurt  each  other — why 
should  they  fear  it — when  they  were  all  wandering  home 
to  the  black  obliterative  bosom  of  their  grandmother 
Night  ?  He  well  knew  a  certain  reply  to  such  reflection, 
but  so  he  talked  with  himself. 

He  would  take  his  leave  as  if  she  were  a  duchess. 
But  he  would  not  until  she  made  him  feel  another  visit 
would  be  an  intrusion. 

One  day  Mrs.  Puckridge  met  him  at  the  door,  looking 
mysterious.  She  pointed  with  her  thumb  over  her 
shoulder  to  indicate  that  the  lady  was  in  the  garden,  but 
at  the  same  time  nudged  him  with  her  elbow,  confident 
that  the  impartment  she  had  to  make  would  justify  the 
liberty,  and  led  the  way  into  the  little  parlour. 

"Please,  sir,  and  tell  me,"  she  said,  turning  and  closing 
the  door,  "  what  I  be  to  do.  She  says  she's  got  no  money 
to  pay  neither  me  nor  the  doctor,  so  she  give  me  this, 
and  wants  me  to  sell  it.  I  daren't  show  it !  They'd 
say  I  stole  it !  She  declares  if  I  mention  to  a  living  soul 
where  I  got  it,  she'll  never  speak  to  me  again.  In 
course  she  didn't  mean  you,  sir,  seein'  as  doctors 
an'  clergymen  ain't  nobody  —  leastways  nobody  to 
speak  on — and  I'm  sure  1  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  my 
meanin'  is  as  they  ain't  theni  as  ain't  to  be  told  things. 
1  declare  I'm  a'most  terrified  to  set  eyes  on  the  thing  ! " 

She  handed  the  doctor  a  little  morocco  case.  He 
opened  it,  and  saw  a  ring,  which  was  plainly  of  value. 
It  was  old-fashioned^a  round  mass  of  small  diamonds 
with  a  good-sized  central  one. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  he  said.     *'  The  ring  is  far  too 


96  PAUL  FAB  Ilk. 

valuable  for  you  to  dispose  of.  Bring  it  to  my  house  at 
four  o'clock,  and  I  will  get  rid  of  it  for  you." 

Mrs.  Puckridge  was  greatly  relieved,  and  ended  the 
interview  by  leading  the  way  to  the  back-door.  When 
she  opened  it,  he  saw  his  patient  sitting  in  the  little 
arbour.     She  rose,  and  came  to  meet  him. 

"  You  see  I  am  quite  well  now,"  s'ne  said,  holding  out 
her  hand. 

Her  tone  was  guarded,  but  surely  tlie  ice  v^'as  melting 
a  little  !  Was  she  taking  courage  at  the  near  approach 
of  her  deliverance  ? 

She  stooped  to  pick  a  double  daisy  from  the  border. 
Prompt  as  he  generally  was,  he  could  say  nothing  :  he 
knew  what  was  coming  next.  She  spoke  while  still  she 
stooped. 

"When  you  con^e  again,"  she  said,  "will  you  kindly  let 
me  know  how  much  I  am  in  your  debt  ?  " 

As  she  ended  she  rose  and  stood  before  him,  but  she 
looked  no  higher  than  his  shirt-studs.  She  was  ashamed 
to  speak  of  her  indebtedness  as  an  amount  that  could  be 
reckoned.  The  whiteness  of  her  cheek  grew  warm,  which 
was  all  her  complexion  ever  revealed  of  a  blush.  It 
showed  plainer  in  the  deepened  darkness  of  her  eyes,  and 
the  tremulous  increase  of  light  in  them. 

"  I  will,"  he  replied,  without  the  smallest  response  of 
confusion,  for  he  had  recovered  himself  "  You  will  be 
careful  ?  "  he  added.  "  Indeed  you  must,  or  you  will 
never  be  strong." 

She  answered  only  wiih  a  little  sigli,  as  if  weakness  was 
such  a  weariness  !  and  looked  away  across  the  garden- 
hedge  out  into  the  infinite — into  more  oi  it  at  least  1 
think,  than  Faber  recognized. 

"And  of  all  things,"  he  went  on,  "wear  shoes — every 
time  you  have  to  step  off  a  carpet — not  mere  foot-gloves 
like  those." 

•' Is  this  a  healthy  place,  Doctor  Faber?"  she  asked, 
looking  haughtier,  he  thought,  but  plainly  with  a  little 
trouble  in  her  eyes. 


THE  GARDEN  AT  OWLKIRK.  97 

"  Decidedly,"  he  answered.  "  And  when  you  are  aoie 
to  walk  on  the  heath  you  will  find  the  air  invigorating. 
Only  please  mind  what  I  say  about  your  shoes.— May  I 
ask  if  you  intend  remaining  here  any  time  ?  " 

^'1  have  already  remained  so  much  longer  than  I 
intended,  that  1  am  afraid  to  say.  My  plans  are  now- 
uncertain." 

"  Excuse  me — I  know  I  presume — but  in  our  profession 
we  must  venture  a  little  now  and  then  —  could  you  not 
have  some  friend  with  you  till  you  are  perfectly  strong 
again  ?  After  what  you  have  come  through,  it  may  be 
years  before  you  are  quite  what  you  were.  I  don't  want 
to  frighten  you — only  to  make  you  careful. 

"There  is  no  one,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice,  which 
trembled  a  little. 

"No  one — ?"  repeated  Faber,  as  if  waiting  for  the  end 
of  the  sentence.     But  his  heart  gave  a  great  bound. 

"  No  one  to  come  to  me.  I  am  alone  in  the  world. 
My  mother  died  when  I  was  a  child,  and  my  father 
two  years  ago.  He  was  an  officer.  I  was  his  only  child, 
and  used  to  go  about  with  him.     I  have  no  friends." 

Her  voice  faltered  more  and  more.  When  it  ceased 
she  seemed  choking  a  cry. 

"  Since  then,"  she  resumed,  "  I  have  been  a  governess. 
My  last  situation  was  in  Yorkshire,  in  a  cold  part  of  the 
county,  and  my  health  began  to  fail  me.  I  heard  that 
Glaston  was  a  warm  jilace,  and  one  where  I  should  be 
likely  to  get  employment.  But  I  u-as  taken  ill  on  my 
way  there,  and  forced  to  stop.  A  lady  in  the  train  told 
me  this  was  such  a  sweet,  quiet  little  place,  and  so  when 
we  got  to  the  station,  I  came  on  here." 

Again  Fabcr  could  not  speak.  The  thought  of  a  lady 
like  her  travelling  about  alone  looking  for  work,  was 
frightful  !  "  And  they  talk  of  a  (jod  in  the  world  !  "  he 
said  to  himself — and  felt  as  if  he  never  could  forgive  him. 

"  I  have  papers  to  show,"  she  added  quietly,  as  if  be- 
thinking herself  that  he  might  he  taking  her  for  an 
impostor. 

H 


98  PAUL  PABEk. 

All  the  time  she  had  never  looked  him  in  the  face.  She 
had  fixed  her  gaze  on  the  far  horizon,  but  a  smile,  half 
pitiful,  half  proud,  flickered  about  the  wonderful  curves 
of  her  upper  lip. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me,"  he  said.  "I  may  be 
of  service  to  you,  if  you  will  permit  me.  I  know  a  great 
many  families  about  here." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !  "  she  cried,  and  with  an  expression 
of  dawning  hope,  which  made  her  seem  more  beautiful 
than  ever,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  him  full  in  the 
face :  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  hers  lighted  up, 
except  with  fever.  Then  she  turned  from  him,  and,  aj)- 
parendy  lost  in  relief,  walked  towards  the  arbour  a  few 
steps  distant.  He  followed  her,  a  little  behind,  for  the 
path  was  narrow,  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  exquisite  cheek. 
It  was  but  a  moment,  yet  the  very  silence  seemed  to 
become  conscious.  All  at  once  she  grew  paler,  shud- 
dered, put  her  hand  to  her  head,  and  entering  the 
arbour,  sat  down.  Faber  was  alarmed.  Her  hand  was 
quite  cold.  She  would  have  drawn  it  away,  but  he  in- 
sisted on  feeling  her  pulse. 

"You  must  come  in  at  once,"  he  said. 

She  rose,  visibly  trembling.  He  supported  her  into 
the  house,  made  her  lie  down,  got  a  hot  bottle  for  her 
feet,  and  covered  her  with  shawls  and  blankets. 

"  You  are  quite  unfit  for  any  exertion  yet,"  he  said, 
and  seated  himself  near  her.  "You  must  consent  to  be 
an  invalid  for  a  while.  Do  not  be  anxious.  There  is  no 
fear  of  your  finding  what  you  want  by  the  time  you  are  able 
for  it.  I  pledge  myself  Keep  your  mind  perfectly  easy." 
'  She  answered  him  with  a  look  that  dazzled  him.  Her 
very  eyelids  seemed  radiant  with  thankfulness.  The 
beauty  that  had  fixed  his  regard,  was  now  but  as  a  mask 
through  which  her  soul  was  breaking,  assimilating  it. 
His  eyes  sank  before  the  look,  and  he  felt  himself  catching 
his  breath  like  a  drowning  man.  'When  he  raised  them 
again,  he  saw  tears  streaming  down  her  face.  He  rose,  and 
saying  he  would  call  again  m  the  evening,  left  the  room. 


THE  GARDEN  AT  OWLKIRK.  99 

During  the  rest  of  his  round,  he  did  not  find  it  easy 
to  give  due  attention  to  his  other  cases.  His  custom  was 
to  brood  upon  them  as  he  rode  ;  but  now  that  look  and 
the  tears  that  followed,  seemed  to  bewilder  him,  taking 
from  him  all  command  of  his  thought. 

Ere  long,  the  shadow  that  ever  haunts  the  steps  of  the 
angel.  Love,  the  shadow  whose  name  is  Beneficence,  began 
to  reassume  its  earlier  tyranny.  Oh,  the  bliss  of  knowing 
oneself  the  source  of  well-being,  the  stay  and  protector, 
the  comfort  and  life,  to  such  a  woman  !  of  wrapping  her 
round  in  days  of  peace,  instead  of  anxiety  and  pain  and 
labour!  But  ever  the  thought  of  her  looking  up  to  him 
as  the  source  of  her  freedom,  was  present  through  it  all. 
What  a  glory  to  be  the  object  of  such  looks  as  he  had 
never  in  his  dearest  dreams  imagined !  It  made  his  head 
swim,  even  in  the  very  moment  while  his  great  Ruber, 
astonished  at  what  his  master  required  of  him  that  day, 
rose  to  some  high  thorny  hedge,  or  stiff  rail.  He  was 
perfectly  honest ;  the  consequence  he  sought  was  only  in 
his  own  eyes — and  in  hers  ;  there  was  nothing  of  vulgar 
patronage  in  the  feeling ;  not  an  atom  of  low  purpose  for 
self  in  it.  The  whole  mental  condition  was  nothing 
worse  than  the  blossom  of  the  dream  of  his  childhood — 
the  dream  of  bemg  the  benefactor  of  his  race,  of  being 
loved  and  worshipped  for  his  kindness.  But  the  poison 
of  the  dream  had  grown  more  active  in  its  blossom. 
Since  then,  the  credit  of  goodness  with  himself  had 
gathered  sway  over  his  spirit;  and  stoical  pride  in  goodness 
is  a  far  worse  and  lower  thing  than  delight  in  the  thanks 
of  our  fellows.  He  was  a  mere  slave  to  his  own  ideal,- 
and  that  ideal  was  not  brother  to  the  angel  that  beholds 
the  face  of  the  Father.  Now  he  had  taken  a  backward 
step  in  time,  but  a  forward  step  in  his  real  history,  for 
again  another  than  himself  had  a  part  in  his  dream.  It 
would  be  long  yet,  however,  ere  he  learned  so  to  love 
goodness  as  to  forget  its  beauty.  To  him  who  is  good, 
goodness  has  ceased  to  be  either  object  or  abstraction  ; 
it  is  in  him— a  thirst  to  give ;  a  solemn  quiet  passion  to 


lOO  PAUL  FA  BE  a. 

bless ;  a  delight  in  beholding  well-being.  Ah,  how  we 
dream  and  prate  of  love,  until  the  holy  fire  of  the  true 
divine  love,  the  love  that  God  kindles  in  a  man  towards 
his  fellows,  burn  the  shadow  of  it  out  ! 
_  In  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Puckridge  appeared  with  the 
ring.  He  took  it,  told  her  to  wait,  and  went  out.  In 
a  few  minutes  he  returned,  and,  to  the  woman's  astonish- 
ment, gave  her  fifty  pounds  in  notes.  He  did  not  tell 
her  he  had  been  to  nobody  but  his  own  banker.  The 
ring  he  laid  carefully  aside,  with  no  definite  resolve  con- 
cerning it,  but  the  great  hope  of  somehow  managing  that 
it  should  return  to  her  one  day.  The  thought  shot 
across  his  heaven— what  a  lovely  wedding-present  it  would 
make  !  and  the  meteor  drew  a  long  train  of  shining 
fancies  after  it. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE    PARLOUR    AT    OWLKIRK, 


■  HEN  he  called,  as  he  had  said,  in  the  even- 
ing, she  looked  much  better,  and  there  was 
even  a  touch  of  playfulness  in  her  manner. 
He  could  not  but  hope  some  crisis  had  been 
passed.  The  money  she  had  received  for 
the  ring  had  probably  something  to  do  with  it.  Perhaps 
she  had  not  known  how  valuable  the  ring  was.  There- 
upon in  his  conscientiousness  he  began  to  doubt  whether 
he  had  given  her  its  worth.  In  reality  he  had  exceeded 
it  by  a  few  pounds,  as  he  discovered  upon  inquiry  after- 
wards in  London.  Anyhow  it  did  not  much  matter,  he 
said  to  himself :  he  was  sure  to  fmd  some  way  of  restor- 
ing it  to  her. 

Suddenly  she  looked  up,  and  said  hurriedly  : 
"  I  can  never  repay  you.  Dr.  Faber.      No  one  can  do 
the  impossible." 

"  You  can  repay  me,"  returned  Faber. 
"  How  ?  "  she  said,  looking  startled. 
"  By  never  again  thinking  of  obligation  to  me." 
"  You  must  not  ask  that  of  me,"  .she  rejoined.     *'  It 
would  not  be  right." 

The  tinge  of  a  rose  not  absolutely  white  floated  over 
her  face  and  forehead  as  she  spoke; 


102  rAVL  FADER. 

"Tneh  I  shall  be  content,"  he  rephed,  "if  you  will  say 
nothing  about  it  until  you  are  well  settled.  After  that  I 
promise  to  send  you  a  bill  as  long  as  a  snipe's." 

She  smiled,  looked  up  brightly,  and  said, 

"  You  promise  ?" 

"I  do." 

"  If  you  don't  keep  your  promise,  I  shall  have  to  take 
severe  measures.  Uon't  fancy  me  Avitliout  monejr.  I 
could  pay  you  now— at  least  I  think  so." 

It  was  a  great  good  sign  of  her  that  she  could  talk 
about  money  plainly  as  she  did.  It  wants  a  thorough- 
bred soul  to  talk  just  right  about  money.  Most  people 
treat  money  like  a  bosom-sin :  they  follow  it  earnestly, 
but  do  not  talk  about  it  at  all  in  societ}'. 

"  I  only  pay  six  shillings  a  week  for  my  lodgings  !" 
she  added,  with  a  merry  laugh. 

What  had  become  of  her  constraint  and  stateliness? 
Courtesy  itself  seemed  gone,  and  simple  trust  in  its  place  ! 
^Vas  she  years  younger  than  he  had  thought  her  ?  She 
was  hemming  something,  which  demanded  her  eyes,  but 
every  now  and  then  she  cast  up  a  glance,  and  they  were 
black  suns  unclouding  over  a  white  sea.  Every  look 
made  a  vintage  in  the  doctor's  heart.  There  could  be  no 
man  in  the  case  !  Only  again,  would  fifty  pounds,  with 
the  loss  of  a  family  ring,  serve  to  account  for  such  a 
change  ?  Might  she  not  have  heard  from  somebody 
since  he  saw  her  yesterday?  In  her  presence  he  dared 
not  follow  the  thought. 

Some  books  were  lying  on  the  table  which  could  not 
well  be  Mrs.  Puckridge's.  He  took  up  one ;  it  was  In 
Mcmoriam. 

"  Do  you  like  Tennyson  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  That  is  a  hard  question  to  answer  straight  off,"  he 
replied.— He  had  once  liked  Tennyson,  else  he  would 
not  have  answered  so. — "  Had  you  asked  me  if  I  liked 
///  Memoriaiii,"  he  went  on,  "  I  could  more  easily  have 
answered  you." 

"  Then,  don't  you  like  In  Jlfcmon'am  ?  " 


THE  PARLOUR  AT  OlVLKlRk'.  103 

■'  No  ;  it  is  weak  and  exaggerated." 

"  Ah  !  you  don't  understand  it.  I  didn't  until  after  my 
father  died.  Then  I  began  to  know  what  it  meant,  and 
now  r  think  it  the  most  beautiful  poem  I  ever  read." 

"  You  are  fond  of  poetry,  then  ?  '"' 

"  I  don't  read  much  ;  but  I  think  there  is  more  in 
some  poetry  than  in  all  the  prose  in  the  world." 

"  That  is  a  good  deal  to  say." 

"  A  good  deal  too  much,  when  I  think  that  I  haven't 
read,  I  suppose,  twenty  books  in  my  life — that  is,  books 
worth  calling  books  :  I  don't  mean  novels  and  things  of 
that  kind.  Yet  I  cannot  believe  twenty  years  of  good 
reading  would  make  me  change  my  mind  about  In 
Mentor iani. — You  don't  like  poetry  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  do — much.  I  like  Pope  and  Crabbe — 
and — let  me  see — well,  I  used  to  like  Thomson.  I  like 
the  men  that  give  you  things  just  as  they  are.  I  do  not 
like  the  poets  that  mix  themselves  up  with  what  they  see, 
and  then  rave  about  Nature.  I  confess  myself  a  lover  of 
the  truth  beyond  all  things." 

"  But  are  you  sure,"  she  returned,  looking  him  gently 
but  straight  in  the  eyes,  "  that,  in  your  anxiety  not  to 
make  more  of  things  than  they  are,  you  do  not  make 
less  of  them  than  they  are?" 

"There  is  no  fear  of  that,"  returned  Faber  sadly,  with 
an  unconscious  shake  of  the  head.  "  So  long  as  there  is 
youth  and  imagination  on  that  side  to  paint  them, — " 

"  Excuse  me  :  are  you  not  begging  the  question  ?  Do 
they  paint,  or  do  they  see  what  they  say  ?  Some  pro- 
fess to  believe  that  the  child  sees  more  truly  than  the. 
grown  man — that  the  latter  is  the  one  who  paints, — ■ 
paints  out,  that  is,  with  a  coarse  brush." 

"  You  mean  AVordsworth."  ' 

"  Not  him  only." 

"  True  ;  no  end  of  poets  besides.  They  all  say  it 
now-a-days." 

"  But  surely,  Mr.  Fabcr,  "  if  there  be  a  God, — 

"  Ah  ! "    interrupted   the  doctor,  "  there  you  beg  the 


104  PAUL  FALER. 

question.  Suppose  there  should  be  no  God,  what 
then  ?" 

"  Then,  I  grant  you,  there  could  be  no  poetry.  Some- 
body says  poetry  is  the  speech  of  hope ;  and  certainly 
if  there  were  no  God,  there  could  be  no  hope." 

Faber  was  struck  with  what  she  said,  not  from  any 
feeling  that  there  was  truth  in  it,  but  from  its  indication 
of  a  not  illogical  mind.  He  was  on  the  point  of  replying 
that  certain  kinds  of  poetry,  and  In  Mc/non'ain  in  particu- 
lar, seemed  to  him  more  like  the  speech  of  a  despair  that 
had  not  the  courage  to  confess  itself  and  die ;  but  he  saw 
she  had  not  a  suspicion  he  spoke  as  he  did  for  anything 
but  argument,  and  feared  to  fray  his  bird  by  scattering 
his  crumbs  too  roughly.  He  honestly  believed  deliver- 
ance from  the  superstition  into  which  he  granted  a  fine 
nature  was  readier  to  fall  than  a  common  one,  the 
greatest  gift  one  human  being  could  offer  to  another  ; 
but  at  the  same  time  he  could  not  bear  to  think  of  her 
recoil  from  such  utterance  of  his  unfaith  as  he  had  now 
almost  got  into  the  habit  of  making.  He  bethought  him- 
self, too,  that  he  had  already  misrepresented  himself,  in 
giving  her  the  impression  that  he  was  incapable  of  enjoy- 
ing poetry  of  the  more  imaginative  sort.  He  had  indeed 
in  his  youth  been  passionately  fond  of  such  verse.  Then 
came  a  time  in  which  he  turned  from  it  with  a  sick  dis- 
may. Feelings  and  memories  of  agony,  which  a  word,  a 
line,  would  rouse  in  him  afresh,  had  brought  him  to  avoid 
it  with  an  aversion  seemingly  deep-rooted  as  an  instinct, 
and  mounting  even  to  loathing ;  and  when  at  length 
he  cast  from  him  the  semi-beliefs  of  his  education, 
he  persuaded  himself  that  he  disliked  it  for  its  false- 
hood. He  read  his  philosophy  by  the  troubled 
light  of  wrong  and  suffering,  and  that  is  not  the 
light  of  the  morning,  but  of  a  burning  house. 
Of  all  i)oems,  naturally  enough,  he  then  disliked  /;/ 
Mcinoriani  the  most ;  and  now  it  made  him  almost  angry 
that  Juliet  Meredith  should  like  so  much  what  he  so 
much  disliked.     Not  that  he  would  have  a  lady  indifferent 


THE  PARLOUR  AT  OIVLKIRK.  105 

to  poetry.  That  would  argue  a  lack  of  poetry  in  herself, 
and  such  a  lady  would  be  like  a  scentless  rose.  You 
could  not  expect,  who  indeed  could  wish  a  lady  to  be 
scientific  in  her  ways  of  regarding  things?  Was  she 
not  the  live  concentration,  the  perfect  outcome,  of  the 
vast  poetic  show  of  Nature?  In  shape,  in  motion  of 
body  and  brain,  in  tone  and  look,  in  colour  and  hair, 
in  faithfulness  to  old  dolls  and  carelessness  of  hearts,  was 
she  not  the  sublimation,  the  essence  of  sunsets,  and 
fading  roses,  and  butterflies,  and  snows,  and  running 
waters,  and  changing  clouds,  and  cold  shadowy  moon- 
light ?  He  argued  thus  more  now  in  sorrow  than  in 
anger ;  for  what  was  the  woman  but  a  bubble  on 
the  sand  of  the  infinite  soulless  sea — a  bubble  of  a 
hundred  lovely  hues,  that  must  shine  because  it  could 
not  help  it,  and  for  the  same  reason  break  ?  She  was 
-not  to  blame.  Let  her  shine  and  glow,  and  sparkle,  and 
vanish.  For  him,  he  cared  for  nothing  but  science — 
nothing  that  did  not  promise  one  day  to  yield  up  its 
kernel  to  the  seeker.  To  him  science  stood  for  truth, 
and  for  truth  in  the  inward  parts,  stood  obedience  to  the 
laws  of  Nature.  If  he  was  one  of  a  poor  race,  he  would 
rise  above  his  fellows  by  being  good  to  them  in  their 
misery ;  while  for  himself  he  would  confess  to  no  misery. 
Let  the  laws  of  Nature  work — eyeless  and  heartless  as 
the  whirlwind  \  he  would  live  his  life,  be  himself,  be 
Nature,  and  depart  without  a  murmur.  No  scratch  on 
the  face  of  time,  insignificant  even  as  the  pressure  of  a 
fern-leaf  upon  coal,  should  tell  that  he  had  ever  thought 
his  fate  hard.  He  would  do  his  endeavour  and  die 
and  return  to  nothing — not  then  more  dumb  of  complaint 
than  now.  Such  had  been  for  years  his  stern  i)liilosophy, 
and  why  should  it  now  trouble  him  that  a  woman  thought 
differently  ?  Did  the  sound  of  faith  from  such  lips,  the 
look  of  hope  in  such  eyes,  stir  anything  out  of  sight  in 
his  heart  ?  Was  it  for  a  moment  as  if  the  corner  of  a 
veil  were  lifted,  the  lower  edge  of  a  mist,  and  he  saw 
something  fair  I)eyond  ?     Came  there  a  little  glow  and 


loO  PAUL  rADER. 

flutter  out  of  the  old  time  ?  "All  forget,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  "  I  too  have  forgotten.  Why  should  not  Nature 
forget  ?  Why  should  I  be  fooled  any  more  ?  Is  it  not 
enough?  '' 

Yet  as  he  sat  gazing,  in  the  broad  light  of  day,  through 
the  cottage  window,  across  whose  panes  waved  the  little 
red  bells  of  the  common  fuchsia,  something  that  had 
nothing  to  do  with  science  and  yet  was,  seemed  to  linger 
and  hover  over  the  little  garden — something  from  the  very 
depths  of  loveliest  folly.  Was  it  the  refrain  of  an  old 
song  ?  or  the  smell  of  withered  rose  leaves  ?  or  was  there 
indeed  a  kind  of  light  such  as  never  was  on  sea  or  shore  ? 

Whatever  it  was,  it  was  out  of  the  midst  of  it  the  voice 
of  the  lady  seemed  to  come — a  clear  musical  voice  in 
common  speech,  but  now  veiled  and  trembling,  as  if  it 
brooded  hearkening  over  the  words  it  uttered : 

"  I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue  : 
Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith? 
There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Dcatli  : 
The  dead  shall  look  me  through  anil  through. 

"  Be  neai-  us  when  we  climb  or  fall  : 
Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 
To  make  allowance  for  us  all." 

She  ceased,  and  the  silence  was  like  that  which  follows 
sweet  music. 

"  Ah  !  you  think  of  your  father  ! "  he  hazarded,  and 
hoped  indeed  it  was  her  father  of  whom  she  was  thinking. 

She  made  no  answer.  He  turned  towards  her  in 
anxiety.  She  was  struggling  with  emotion.  The  next 
instant  the  tears  gushed  into  her  eyes,  while  a  smile 
seemed  to  struggle  from  her  lips,  and  spread  a  little  way 
over  her  face.     It  was  inexpressibly  touching. 

"  He  was  my  friend,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  never  have 
such  love  again." 

"All  is  not  lost  when  much  is  lost,"  said  the  doctor, 
with  sad  comforl.      "  TIktc  are  spring  days  in  winter," 


THE  PARLOUR  AT  OWLKIRK.  107 

*•'  And  you  don't  like  poetry  !  "  she  said,  a  sweet  playful 
icorn  shining  through  her  tears. 

"I  spoke  but  a  sober  truth,"  he  returned  ;  "—so sober 
that  it  seems  but  the  sadder  for  its  trutli.  The  struggle 
of  life  is  to  make  the  best  of  things  that  might  be 
worse." 

She  looked  at  him  pitifully.  For  a  moment  her  li])s 
parted,  then  a  strange  look  as  of  sudden  bodily  i)ain 
crossed  her  face,  her  lips  closed,  and  her  mouth  looked 
as  if  it  were  locked.  She  shut  the  book  which  lay  upon 
her  knee,  and  resumed  her  needlework.  A  shadow 
settled  upon  her  face. 

"  What  a  pity  such  a  woman  should  be  wasted  in 
believing  lies!"'  thought  the  doctor.  "How  much 
better  it  would  be  if  she  would  look  things  in  the  face, 
and  resolve  to  live  as  she  can,  doing  her  best  and  endur- 
ing her  worst,  and  waiting  for  the  end  !  And  yet,  seeing 
colour  is  not  in  the  thing  itself,  and  only  in  the  brain 
whose  eye  looks  upon  it,  why  should  I  think  it  better? 
why  should  she  not  shine  in  the  colour  of  her  fancy  ?  why 
should  she  grow  gray  because  the  colour  is  only  in  her- 
self? We  are  but  bubbles  flying  from  the  round  of 
Nature's  mill-wheel.  Our  joys  and  griefs  are  the  colours 
that  play  upon  the  bubbles.  Their  throbs  and  ripples 
and  changes  are  our  music  and  poetry,  and  their  bursting 
is  our  endless  repose.  Let  us  waver  and  float  and  shine 
in  the  sun  ;  let  us  bear  pitifully  and  be  kind ;  for  the 
night  Cometh,  and  there  an  end." 

But  in  the  sad  silence,  he  and  the  lady  were  perhaps 
drifting  farther  and  farther  apart ! 

"  I  did  not  mean,"  he  said,  plunging  into  what  came 
first,  "that  I  could  not  enjoy  verse  of  the  kind  you  pre- 
fer— as  verse.  I  took  the  matter  by  the  more  serious 
handle,  because,  evidently,  you  accepted  the  tone  and  the 
scope  of  it.     I  have  a  weakness  for  honesty." 

"There  is  something  not  right  about  you,  though,  Mr. 
Faber — if  I  could  find  it  out,"  said  Miss  Meredith.  "  You 
cannot  mean  you  enjoy  anything  you  do  not  believe  in?'' 


loS  FAUL  FABER.    ' 

'■  Surely  there  are  many  things  one  can  enjoy  without 
beUeving  in  them  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  seems  to  me  that  enjoying  a 
thing  is  only  another  word  for  believing  in  it.  If  I 
thought  the  sweetest  air  on  the  violin  had  no  truth  in 
it,  I  could  not  listen  to  it  a  moment  longer." 

"  Of  course  the  air  has  all  the  truth  it  pretends  to— 
the  truth,  that  is,  of  the  relations  of  sounds  and  of  in- 
tervals— also,  of  course,  the  truth  of  its  relation  as  a  whole 
to  that  creative  something  in  the  human  mind  which 
gave  birth  to  it." 

"That  is  not  all  it  pretends.  It  pretends  that  the 
something  it  gives  birth  to  in  the  human  mind  is  also  a 
true  thing." 

"  Is  there  not  then  another  v/ay  also,  in  which  the  violin 
may  be  said  to  be  true  ?  Its  tone  throughout  is  of  suffer- 
ing: does  it  not  mourn  that  neither  what  gives  rise  to  it,  noi 
what  it  gives  rise  to,  is  anything  but  a  lovely  vapour — the 
].)hantom  of  an  existence  not  to  be  lived,  only  to  be 
dreamed?  Does  it  not  mourn  that  a  man,  though 
necessarily  in  harmony  with  the  laws  under  which  he  lives, 
yet  cannot  be  sufficiently  conscious  of  that  harmony  to 
keep  him  from  straining  after  his  dream  ?  " 

"Ah!"  said  Miss  Meredith,  "then  there  is  strife  in 
the  kingdom,  and  it  cannot  stand  !  " 

"  There  /s  strife  in  the  kingdom,  and  it  cannot  stand," 
said  the  doctor,  with  mingled  assent  and  assertion. 
"  Hence  it  is  for  ever  falling." 

"  But  it  is  for  ever  renewed,"  she  objected. 

"With  what  renewal ?"  rejoined  Faber.  "  What  return 
is  there  from  the  jaws  of  death?  The  individual  is  gone. 
A  new  consciousness  is  not  a  renewal  of  consciousness." 

She  looked  at  him  keenly. 

"  It  is  hard,  is  it  not  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  will  not  deny  that  in  certain  moods  it  looks  so," 
he  answered. 

She  did  not  yet  perceive  his  drift,  ami  was  feeling 
after  it. 


THE  PARLOUR  AT  OU  l.KIKK.  {09 

"  Surely,"  she  said,  '•  the  thing  thai  ouglit  to  be,  is  the 
thing  that  must  be." 

"  How  can  we  tell  that  ?"  he  returned.  "  What  do  we 
see  like  it  in  nature  ?  Whatever  lives  and  thrives — animal 
or  ^-egetable — or  human — it  is  all  one — everything  that 
lives  and  thrives,  is  for  ever  living  and  thriving  on  the  loss, 
the  defeat,  the  death  of  another.  There  is  no  unity  save 
absolutely  by  means  of  destruction.  Destruction  is  indeed 
the  very  centre  and  framework  of  the  sole  existing  unity. 
I  will  not,  therefore,  as  some  do,  call  Nature  cruel  :  what 
right  have  I  to  complain?  Nature  cannot  help  it.  She 
is  no  more  to  blame  for  bringing  me  forth,  than  I  am  to 
blame  for  being  brought  forth.  OiioJu  is  merely  the  reflex 
of  like.  We  call  ourselves  the  highest  in  Nature — and 
probably  we  are,  being  the  apparent  result  of  the  whole 
— whence,  naturally,  having  risen,  we  seek  to  rise,  we 
feel  after  something  we  fancy  higher.  For  as  to  the  system 
in  which  we  live,  we  are  so  ignorant  that  we  can  but 
blunderingly  feel  our  way  in  it  ;  and  if  we  knew  all  its 
laws,  we  could  neither  order  nor  control,  save  by  a  poor 
subservience.  We  are  the  slaves  of  our  circumstance, 
therefore  betake  ourselves  to  dreams  of  wh.at  ought  to  be." 

Miss  Meredith  was  silent  for  a  time. 

"  I  cannot  see  how  to  answer  you,"  she  said  at  length. 
"  But  you  do  not  disturb  my  hope  of  seeing  my  father 
again.     We  have  a  sure  word  of  prophecy." 

Faber  suppressed  the  smile  of  courteous  contempt  that 
was  ready  to  break  forth,  and  she  went  on  : 

"  It  would  ill  become  me  to  doubt  to-day,  as  you  will 
grant  when  I  tell  you  a  wonderful  fact.  This  morning 
1  had  not  money  enough  to  buy  myself  the  pair  of  strong 
shoes  you  told  me  I  must  wear.  1  had  nothing  left  but  a 
few  trinkets  of  my  mother's — one  of  them  a  ring  I  thought 
worth  about  ten  pounds.  I  ga\-e  it  'to  my  landlady  to 
sell  for  me,  hoping  she  would  get  five  for  it.  She  brought 
me  fifty,  and  I  am  rich  !" 

Her  last  words  trembled  with  triumph.  He  had  him- 
self been  building  her  up  in  her  foolish  faith  1     liut  he 


no  I'AVL  rAUKk. 

took  consolation  in  thinking  how  easily  with  a  word  he 
could  any  moment  destroy  that  buttress  of  her  phantom 
house.  It  was  he,  the  unbeliever,  and  no  God  in  or  out 
of  her  Bible,  that  had  helped  her  ! — It  did  not  occur  to 
him  that  she  might  after  all  see  in  him  only  a  reed  blown 
of  a  divine  wind. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  of  your  good  fortune,"  he  answered. 
"  I  cannot  say  I  see  how  it  bears  on  the  argument.  You 
had  in  your  possession  more  than  you  knew." 

"Does  the  length  of  its  roots  alter  the  kind  of  the 
plant?"  she  asked.  "  Do  we  not  know  in  all  nature  and 
history  that  God  likes  to  see  things  grow.  That  must  be 
the  best  way.  It  may  be  the  only  right  way.  If  that 
ring  was  given  to  my  mother  against  the  time  when  the 
last  child  of  her  race  should  find  herself  otherwise  help- 
less, would  the  fact  that  the  provision  was  made  so  early 
turn  the  result  into  a  mere  chance  meeting  of  necessity 
and  subsidy  ?  Am  I  bound  to  call  every  good  thing  I 
receive  a  chance,  except  an  angel  come  down  visibly  out 
of  the  blue  sky  and  give  it  to  me  ?  That  would  be  to 
believe  in  a  God  who  could  not  work  his  will  by  his  own 
laws.  Here  I  am,  free  and  hopeful — all  I  needed. 
Everything  was  dark  and  troubled  yesterday ;  the  sun  is 
up  to-day." 

"  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,  which  taken  at 
the  flood  leads  on  to  fortune,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  begin  to  fear  you  mean  what  you  say,  Mr.  Faber. 
I  hoped  it  was  only  for  argument's  sake,"  returned  Miss 
Meredith. 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  from  her  work  this  time. 
Faber  saw  that  she  was  distressed  if  not  hurt,  and  that 
her  soul  had  closed  its  lips  to  him.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet,  and  stood  bending  before  her. 

"  Miss  Meredith,"  he  said,  "  forgive  me.  I  have 
offended  you." 

"  You  have  not  offended  me,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  Hurt  you  then,  which  is  worse." 

"  How  should  I  have  got  through,"  she  said,  as  if  to 


7//i  VAKLOUK  AT  OW  LKIRK.  1 1 1 

herself,  and  dropped  her  hands  with  her  work  on  hot 
knees,  "  if  I  had  not  believed  there  was  one  caring  for 
me  all  the  time,  even  when  I  was  most  alone  !" 

"  Do  you  never  lose  that  faith  ?  "  asked  the  doctor. 
■   "  Yes  ;  many  and- many  a  time.      Ikit  it  always  comes 
back." 

"  Comes  and  goes  with  your  health." 

"  No — is  strongest  sometimes  when  I  am  farthest  from 
well." 

"  When  you  are  most  feverish,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  What  a  fool  I  am  to  go  on  contradicting  her  !  "  he  added 
to  himself. 

"  I  think  I  know  you  better  than  you  imagine,  Mr, 
Faber,"  said  Miss  Meredith,  after  just  a  moment's  pause. 
"  You  are  one  of  those  men  who  like  to  represent  them- 
selves worse  than  they  are.  I  at  least  am  bound  to 
think  better  of  you  than  you  would  have  me.  One  who 
lives  as  you  do  for  other  people,  cannot  be  so  far  from 
the  truth  as  your  words." 

Faber  honestly  repudiated  the  praise,  for  he  felt  it 
more  than  he  deserved.  He  did  try  to  do  well  by  his 
neighbour,  but  was  aware  of  no  such  devotion  as  it  im- 
plied. Of  late  he  had  found  his  work  bore  him  not  a  little 
• — especially  when  riding  away  from  Owlkirk.  The  praise, 
notwithstanding,  sounded  sweet  from  her  lips,  was  sweeter 
still  from,  her  eyes,  and  from  the  warmer  white  of  her 
cheek,  which  had  begun  to  resume  its  soft  roundness. 

"  Ah  !  "  thought  the  doctor,  as  he  rode  slowly  home,_ 
"  were  it  not  for  sickness,  age,  and  death,  this  world  of 
ours  would  be  no  bad  place  to  live  in.  Surely  mine  is 
the  most  needful  and  the  noblest  of  callings  ! — to  fight  for 
youth,  and  health,  and  love,  against  age,  and  sickness,  and 
decay  !  to  fight  death  to  the  last,  even  knowing  he  must 
have  the  best  of  it  in  the  end !  to  set  law  against  law,  and 
do  what  poor  thing  may  be  done  to  reconcile  the 
inexorable  with  the  desirable  !  Who  knows — if  law  be 
blind,  and  I  a  man  that  can  see — for  at  the  last,  and  only 
at  the  last  do  eyes  come  in  the  head  of  Nature — who  knows 


112  tAUJ,  FAFER. 

Ijut  I  may  find  out  amongst  the  blind  laws  to  which  I  am 
the  eyes,  that  blind  law  which  lies  nearest  the  root  of  life  ! 
— Ah,  what  a  dreamer  I  should  have  been,  liad  I  lived  in 
the  time  when  great  dreams  were  possible  !  Beyond  a 
doubt  I  should  have  sat  brooding  over  the  elixir  of  life, 
cooking  and  mixing,  heating  and  coohng,  watching  for 
the  flash  in  the  goblet.  We  know  so  much  now,  that  the 
range  of  hope  is  sadly  limited  !  A  thousand  dark  ways 
of  what  seemed  blissful  possibility  are  now  closed  to  us, 
because  there  the  light  now  shines,  and  shows  nought 
but  despair. — Yet  why  should  the  thing  be  absurd  ?  Can 
any  one  tell  tuliy  this  organism  we  call  man  should  not 
go  on  working  for  ever  ?  Why  should  it  not,  since  its  law 
is  change  and  renewal,  go  on  changing  and  renewing  for 
ever  ?  Why  should  it  get  tired  ?  Why  should  its  law 
work  more  feebly,  its  relations  hold  less  firmly,  after  a 
hundred  years,  than  after  ten  ?  Why  should  it  grow  and 
grow,  then  sink  and  sink  ?  No  one  knows  a  reason. 
Then  why  should  it  be  absurd  to  seek  what  shall 
encounter  the  unknown  cause,  and  encountering  reveal 
it?  Might  science  be  brought  to  the  pitch  that  such 
a  woman  should  live  to  all  the  ages,  how  many  com- 
mon lives  might  not  well  be  spared  to  such  an  end  !  How 
many  noble  ones  would  not  willingly  cease  for  such  a  con- 
summation— dying  that  life  should  be  lord,  and  death  no 
longer  king  !  " 

Plainly  Faber's  materialism  sprang  from  no  defect  in 
the  region  of  the  imagination  ;  but  I  find  myself  unable 
to  determine  how  much  honesty,  and  how  much  pride 
and  the  desire  to  be  satisfied  with  himself,  had  relatively 
to  do  with  it.  I  would  not  be  understood  to  imply  that 
he  had  an  unusual  amount  of  pride  ;  and  I  am  sure  he  was 
less  easily  satisfied  with  himself  than  most  are.  Most 
people  will  make  excuses  for  themselves  which  they 
.  would  neither  make  nor  accept  for  their  neighbour  ;  their 
own  failures  and  follies  trouble  them  little :  Faber  was 
of  another  sort.  As  ready  as  any  other  man  to  discove 
what  could  be  said   on  his  side,  he  was  not  so  read-'  T7 


THE  PARL 0 UR  AT  0 IVLKIRK.  1 1 3 

adopt  it.  He  required  a  good  deal  of  himself.  But  then 
he  unconsciously  compared  himself  with  his  acquaint- 
ances, and  made  what  he  knew  of  them  the  gauge,  if  not 
the  measure,  of  wliat  he  required  of  himself 

It  were  unintelligible  how  a  man  should  prefer  being 
the  slave  of  blind  helpless  Law  to  being  the  child  of 
living  Wisdom,  should  believe  in  the  absolute  Nothing 
rather  than  in  the  perfect  Will,  were  it  not  that  he  does 
not,  cannot  see  the  Wisdom  or  the  Will,  except  he  draw 
nigh  thereto. 

I  shall  be  answered  : 

"We  do  not  prefer.  We  mourn  the  change  which 
yet  we  cannot  resist.  We  would  gladly  have  the  God  of 
our  former  faith,  were  it  possible  any  longer  to  believe  in 
him." 

I  answer  again : 

"  Are  you  sure  of  what  you  say  ?  Do  you  in  reality 
mourn  over  your  lost  faith  ?  For  my  part,  I  would  rather 
disbelieve  with  you,  than  have  what  you  have  lost.  For 
I  would  rather  have  no  God  than  the  God  whom  you 
suppose  me  to  believe  in,  and  whom  therefore  I  take  to 
be  the  God  in  whom  you  imagine  you  believed  in  the  days 
of  your  ignorance.  That  those  were  days  of  ignorance  I 
do  not  doubt ;  but  are  these  the  days  of  your  knowledge  ? 
The  time  will  come  when  you  will  see  deeper  into  your 
own  hearts  than  now,  and  will  be  humbled,  like  not  a 
few  other  men,  by  what  you  behold." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


THE   IJUTCHERS    SHOP. 


'BOUT  four  years  previous  to  the  time  of 
whicli  I  am  now  writing,  and  while  yet 
Mr.  Drake  was  in  high  repute  among  the 
jK'ople  of  Cowlane  chapel,  he  went  to  Lon- 
don to  visit  an  old  friend,  a  woman  of 
great  practical  benevolence,  exercised  chiefly  towards 
orphans.  Just  then  her  thoughts  and  feelings  were 
largely  occupied  with  a  lovely  little  girl,  the  chain  of 
whose  history  had  been  severed  at  the  last  link,  and  lost 
utterly. 

A  poor  woman  in  Southwark  had  of  her  own  motion, 
partly  from  love  to  children  and  compassion  for  both 
them  and  their  mothers,  partly  to  earn  her  own  bread 
with  pleasure,  established  a  sort  of  creche  in  her  two 
rooms,  where  mothers  who  had  work  from  home 
could  bring  their  children  in  the  morning,  and  leave  them 
till  night.  The  child  had  been  committed  to  her  charge 
day  after  day  for  some  weeks.  One  morning,  when  she 
brought  her,  the  mother  seemed  out  of  health,  and  did 
not  appear  at  night  to  take  her  home.  The  next  day  the 
woman  heard  she  was  in  the  small-pox-hosj)ital.  For  a 
week  or  so,  the  money  to  pay  for  the  child  came  almost 
regularly,  in  postage-stamps,  then  ceased  altogether,  and  the 


7^ HE  BUTCHER'S  SHOP.  115 

woman  heard  nothing  either  from  or  of  the  mother. 
After  a  fortnight  she  contrived  to  go  to  the  hospital  to 
inquire  after  her.  No  one  corresponding  to  her  descrir- 
tion  was  in  the  place.  The  name  was  a  common  one, 
and  several  patients  bearing  it  had  lately  died  and  been 
buried,  while  others  had  recovered  and  were  gone.  Her 
iiKjuiries  in  the  neighbourhood  had  no  better  success  : 
no  one  knew  her,  and  she  did  not  even  discover  where 
she  had  lived.  She  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  taking 
the  child  to  the  work-house,  and  kept  her  for  six  or  eight 
weeks,  but  she  had  a  sickly  son,  a  grown  lad,  to  support, 
and  in  dread  lest  she  should  be  compelled  to  give  her  up 
to  the  parish,  had  applied  for  counsel  to  the  lady  I  have 
mentioned.  When  Mr.  Drake  arrived,  she  had  for  some 
time  been  searching  about  in  vain  to  find  a  nest  for  her. 

Since  his  boys  had  been  taken  from  him,  and  the 
unprized  girl  left  behind  had  grown  so  precious,  Mr. 
Drake  had  learned  to  love  children  as  the  little  ones  of 
God.  He  had,  no  doubt,  like  many  people,  a  dread 
of  children  with  unknown  antecedents  :  who  could  tell 
what  root  of  bitterness,  beyond  the  common  inheritance, 
might  spring  up  in  them  ?  But  all  that  was  known  of 
this  one's  mother  was  unusually  favourable  ;  and  when 
his  friend  took  him  to  see  the  child,  his  heart  yearned 
after  her.  He  took  her  home  to  Doroth}',  and  she  had 
grown  up  such  as  we  have  seen  her,  a  wild,  roguish, 
sweet,  forgetful,  but  not  disobedient  child— very  dear  to 
both  the  Drakes,  who  called  her  their  duckhng. 

As  we  have  seen,  however,  Mr.  Drake  had  in  his 
adversity  grown  fearful  and  faint-hearted,  and  had  begun 
to  doubt  whether  he  had  a  right  to  keep  her.  And  of 
course  he  had  not,  if  it  was  to  be  at  the  expense  of  his 
tradespeople.  But  he  was  of  an  impetuous  nature,  and 
would  not  give  even  (jod  time  to  do  the  thing  that  needed 
time  to  be  done  well.  He  saw  a  crisis  was  at  hand. 
Perhaps,  however,  God  saw  a  spiritual,  wliere  he  saw  a 
temporal  crisis. 

Dorothy  had  a  small  sum,  saved  by  her  mother,  so  in- 


ii6  PAUL  FABER. 

vested  as  to  bring  her  about  twenty  pounds  a  year,  and 
of  the  last  payment  she  had  two  pounds  in  hand.  Her 
father  had  nothing,  and  quarter-day  was  two  months  off. 
This  was  the  common  knowledge  of  their  affairs  at  wliich 
they  arrived  as  they  sat  at  breakfast  on  the  Monday 
morning,  after  the  saddest  Sunday  either  of  them  had  ever 
spent.  They  had  just  risen  from  the  table,  and  the  old 
v/oman  was  removing  the  cloth,  Avhen  a  knock  came  to 
the  lane-door,  and"  she  went  to  open  it,  leaving  the 
room-door  ajar,  whereby  the  minister  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  blue  apron,  and  feeling  himself  turning  sick,  sat 
down  again.  Lisbeth  re-entered  with  a  rather  greasy- 
looking  note,  which  was  of  course  from  the  butcher, 
and  Mr.  Drake's  hand  trembled  as  he  opened  it.  Mr. 
Jones  wrote  that  he  would  not  have  troubled  him,  had 
he  not  asked  for  his  bill ;  but,  if  it  was  quite  convenient, 
he  would  be  glad  to  have  the  amount  by  the  end  of  the 
week,  as  he  had  a  heavy  payment  to  make  the  following 
Monday.  Mr.  Drake  handed  the  note  to  his  daughter, 
rose  hastily,  and  left  the  room.  Dorothy  threw  it  down 
half-read,  and  followed  him.  He  was  opening  the  door, 
his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"Where  are  you  going  in  such  a  hurry,  father  dear?'' 
she  said.  "Wait  a  moment  and  I'll  go  with  you." 

"  My  child,  there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose !  "  he  replied 
excitedly. 

"I  did  not  read  all  the  letter,"  she  returned;  "but  I 
think  he  does  not  want  the  money  till  the  end  of  the 
week." 

"  And  what  better  shall  we  be  then  ?  "  he  rejoined  al- 
most angrily.  "  The  man  looks  to  me,  and  where  will  he 
find  himself  on  Monday  ?  Let  us  be  as  honest  at  least 
as  we  can." 

"  But  we  may  be  able  to  borrow  it — or — who  knows 
what  may  happen  ?  " 

"  There  it  is,  my  dear  !  Who  knows  what  ?  Wc  can 
be  sure  of  nothing  in  this  world." 

"  And  what  in  the  next  then,  father  ?  " 


7  •HE  B  UTCIIER'S  SI/0  P.  1 1 7 

Tlie  minister  was  silent.  If  God  was  anywliere,  he 
was  here  as  much  as  there  !  That  was  not  the  matter  in 
hand,  however.  He  owed  the  money,  and  was  bound  to 
let  the  man  know  that  he  could  not  ])ay  it  by  the  end  of 
the  week.  Without  another  word  to  Dorothy,  he  walked 
from  the  house,  and,  like  a  man  afraid  of  cowardice, 
went  straight  at  the  object  of  his  dismay.  He  was  out  of 
the  lane  and  well  into  Pine  street  before  he  thought  to 
put  on  his  hat. 

From  afar  he  saw  the  butcher,  standing  in  front  of  his 
shop — a  tall  thin  man  in  blue.  His  steel  glittered  by  his 
side,  and  a  red  nightcap  hung  its  tassel  among  the  curls 
of  his  gray  hair.  He  was  discussing,  over  a  small  joint  of 
mutton,  some  point  of  economic  interest  with  a  country 
customer  in  a  cheque-shawl.  To  the  minister's  annoy- 
ance the  woman  was  one  of  his  late  congregation,  and  he 
would  gladly  have  passed  the  shop,  had  he  had  the 
courage.  When  he  came  near,  the  butcher  turned  from 
the  woman,  and  said,  taking  his  nightcap  by  the  tassel  in 
rudimentary  obeisance, 

"  At  your  service,  sir." 

His  courtesy  added  to  Mr.  Drake's  confusion  :  it  was 
plain  the  man  imagined  he  had  brought  him  his  money  ! 
Times  were  indeed  changed  since  his  wife  used  to  drive 
out  in  her  brougham  to  pay  the  bills  !  Was  this  what  a 
man  had  for  working  in  the  vineyard  the  better  part  of  a 
lifetime!  The  poverty  he  did  not  heed.  That  had  been 
the  portion  of  the  messengers  of  heaven  from  the  first. 
But  the  shame  ! — what  was  he  to  do  with  that  ?  V\^ho 
ever  heard  of  St,  Paul  not  being  able  to  pay  a  butcher's 
bill  !  No  doubt  St.  Paul  was  a  mighty  general,  and  he 
but  a  poor  subaltern,  but  in  the  service  there  was  no 
respect  of  persons.  On  the  other  hand,  who  ever  heard  of 
St.  Paul  having  any  bills  to  pay  ! — or  for  that  matter, 
indeed,  of  his  marrying  a  rich  wife,  and  getting  into  expen- 
sive habits  through  popularity  !  Who  ever  heard  of  his 
being  dependent  on  a  congregation  !  He  accepted  help 
sometimes,  but  had  always  his  goats'-hair  and  his  tent- 


iiS  PACL  I-ABER. 

making  to  fall  back  upon  ! — Only,  after  all,  was  the  Lord 
never  a  hard  master  ?     Had  he  not  let  it  come  to  this  ? 

Much  more  of  the  sort  went  through  his  mind  in  a  flash. 
The  country  woman  had  again  drawn  the  attention  of  the 
butcher  with  a  parting  word. 

"You  don't  want  a  chicken  today — do  you,  Mr. 
Drake  ?  "  she  said,  as  she  turned  to  go. 

"No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Thomson.    How  is  your  husband?" 
"  Better,  1  thank  you,  sir.     Good  morning,  sir." 
"  Mr.  Jones,"  said  the  minister — and  as  he  spoke,  he 
stepped  inside  the  shop,  removed  his  hat,  and  wiped  his 
forehead,    "  I  come  to  you   with   shame.     I    have  not 
money  enough  to  pay  your  bill.     Indeed,  I  cannot  even 
pay  a  portion  of  it  till  next  quarter-day." 
"  Don't  mention  it,  Mr.  Drake,  sir." 
"  But  your  bill  on  Monday,  Mr.  Jones  !  " 
"Oh!  never  mind  that.  I  shall  do  very  well,  I  dare  say. 
I  have  a  many  as   owes  me  a  good   deal  more  than  you 
do,  sir,  and  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  letting  of  me 

know  at  once.     You  see,  sir,  if  you  hadn't " 

"Yes,  I  know  :  I  asked  for  it !  I  am  the  sorrier  I  can't 
pay  it  after  all.  It  is  quite  disgraceful,  but  I  simply  can't 
help  it." 

"  Disgraceful,  sir  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Jones,  almost  as  if 
hurt:  "  I  wish  they  thouglit  as  you  do  as  has  ten  times 
the  reason,  sir  ! " 

"  But  I  have  a  request  to  make,"  the  pastor  went  on, 
heedless  of  the  butcher's  remark,  and  pulling  out  a  large 
and  handsome  gold  watch  :  "  AV'ould  you  oblige  me  by 
taking  this  watch  in  security  until  I  do  pay  you  ?  It  is 
worth  a  great  deal  more  than  your  bill.  It  would  add 
much  to  the  obligation,  if  you  would  put  it  out  of  sight 
somewhere,  and  say  nothing  about  it.  If  I  should  die 
before  paying  your  bill,  you  will  be  at  liberty  to  sell  it;  and 
what  is  over,  after  deducting  interest,  you  will  kindly  hand 
to  my  daughter." 

Mr.  Jones  stared  with  open  mouth.  He  tliought  the 
minister  had  lost  his  senses. 


rnE  bctchlr's  shop.  hq 

"What  do  you  make  of  mc,  sir?"  he  said  at  last.  "  Vou 
go  for  to  trust  me  \vitli  a  watcli  hke  that,  and  fancy  I 
wouldn't  trust  you  with  a  little  bill  that  'ain't  been  owing 
three  months  yet !  You  make  me  that  I  don't  know  my- 
_  self,  sir !  Never  you  mention  the  bill  to  me  again,  sir. 
I'll  ask  for  it,  all  in  good  time.  Can  I  ser\-e  you  with 
anything  to-day,  sir  ?  " 

"No,  I  thank  you.  I  must  at  least  avoid  adding  to 
my  debt." 

"  I  hope  what  you  do  have,  you'll  have  of  me,  sir.  I 
don't  mind  waiting  a  goodish  bit  for  my  money,  but 
what  cuts  me  to  the  heart  is  to  see  any  one  as  owes  me 
money  a  goin'  over  the  way,  as  if  'e  'adn't  'a'  found  my 
meat  good  enough  to  serve  his  turn,  an'  that  was  why  he 
do  it.     That  doos  rile  me  ! " 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,  Mr.  Jones — all  the  meat  we 
have  w^e  shall  have  of  you.  But  we  must  be  careful. 
You  see  I  am  not  quite  so — so — " 

He  stopped  with  a  sickly  smile. 

"  Look  ye  here,  Mr.  Drake  ! "  broke  in  the  butcher : 
"  you  parsons  ain't  proper  brought  up.  You  ain't  learned 
to  take  care  of  yourselves.  Now  us  tradespeople, 
we're  learned  from  the  first  to  look  arter  number  one,  and 
not  on  no  account  to  forget  which  is  number  one.  But 
you  parsons,  now, — you'll  excuse  me,  sir ;  I  don't  mean 
no  offence  ;  you  ain't  brought  up  to  't,  an'  it  ain't  to  be 
expected  of  you — but  it's  a  great  neglect  in  your  eddication, 
sir ;  an'  the  consekence  is  as  how  us  as  knows  better  'as 
to  take  care  on  you  as  don't  know  no  better.  I  can't  say 
I  think  much  o'  them  'senters  :  they  don't  stick  by  their 
own  ;  but  you're  a  honest  man,  sir,  if  ever  there  was  a 
honest  man  as  was  again'  the  church,  an'  ask  you  for  that 
money,  I  never  will,  acause  1  know  when  you  can  pay, 
it's  pay  you  will.  Keep  your  mind  easy,  sir  :  /shan't  come 
to  grief  for  lack  o'  what  you  owe  me  !  Only  don't  you 
go  a  starving  of  yourself,  Mr.  Drake.  I  don't  hold  with 
that  nohow.  Have  a  bit  o'  meat  when  you  want  it,  an 
don't  think  over  it  twice.     There  !"' 


120  PAUL  FAIU-.R. 

The  minister  was  just  able  to  thank  his  new  friend  and 
no  more.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  him,  forgetful  of  the 
grease  that  had  so  often  driven  him  from  the  pavement 
to  the  street.  The  butcher  gave  it  a  squeeze  that 
nearly  shot  it  out  of  his  lubricated  grasp,  and  they 
parted,  both  better  men  for  the  interview. 

When  Mr.  Drake  reached  home,  he  met  his  daughter 
coming  out  to  find  him.  He  took  her  hand,  led  her  into 
the  house  and  up  to  his  study,  and  closed  the  door. 

"Dorothy,"  he  said,  "it  is  sweet  to  be  humbled.  The 
Spirit  can  bring  water  from  the  rock,  and  grace  from  a 
hard  heart.  I  mean  mine,  not  the  butcher's.  He  has 
behaved  to  me  as  I  don't  see  how  any  but  a  Christian 
could,  and  that  although  his  principles  are  scarcely  those 
of  one  who  had  given  up  all  for  the  truth.  He  is  like  the 
son  in  the  parable  who  said,  I  go  not,  but  went;  while  I, 
much  I  fear  me,  am  like  the  other  who  said,  I  go,  sir,  but 
went  not.  Alas  !  I  have  always  found  it  hard  to  be 
grateful ;  there  is  something  in  it  unpalatable  to  the  old 
Adam ;  but  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  thank  Mr. 
Jones,  and  I  will  pray  God  for  him  ere  I  open  a  book. 
Dorothy,  I  begin  to  doubt  our  way  of  church-membership. 
It  7nay  make  the  good  better  ;  but  if  a  bad  one  gets  in,  it 
certainly  makes  him  worse.  I  begin  to  think  too,  that 
every  minister  ought  to  be  independent  of  his  flock — I  do 
not  mean  by  the  pay  of  the  state,  God  forbid  !  but  by 
having  some  trade  or  profession,  if  no  fortune.  Still,  if 
I  had  had  the  money  to  pay  that  bill,  I  should 
now  be  where  I  am  glad  not  to  be — up  on  my  castle-top, 
instead  of  down  at  the  gate.  He  has  made  me  poor  that 
he  might  send  me  humility,  and  that  I  find  unspeakably 
precious.  Perhaps  he  will  send  me  the  money  next. 
But  may  it  not  be  intended  also  to  make  us  live  more 
simply — on  vegetables  perhap^s  ?  Do  you  not  remember 
how  it  fared  with  Daniel,  Hananiah,  Mishael,  and  Azariah, 
when  they  refused  the  meat  and  the  wine,  and  ate  pulse 
instead  ?  At  the  end  of  ten  days  their  countenances  ap- 
peared fairer  and  fatter  in   flesh  than  all  the  children 


THE  BUTCHER'S  snol\  \i\ 

which  did  cat  the  portion  of  the  king's  meat.  Pulse,  )ou 
know,  means  pease  and  beans,  and  everything  of  that 
kind — which  is  now  proved  to  be  ahiiost  as  full  of  nourish- 
ment as  meat  itself,  and  to  many  constitutions  more 
wholesome.  Let  us  have  a  dinner  of  beans.  You  caii 
buy  haricot  beans  at  the  grocer's — can  you  not?  If 
Ducky  does  not  thrive  on  them,  or  they  don't  agree  with 
you,  my  Dorothy,  you  will  have  only  to  drop  them.  I  am 
sure  they  will  agree  with  me.  But  let  us  try,  and  then 
the  money  I  owe  Mr.  Jones,  will  not  any  longer  hang  like 
a  millstone  about  my  neck." 

"  We  will  begin  this  very  day,"  said  Dorothy,  delighted 
to  see  her  father  restored  to  equanimity.  "  I  will  go  and 
see  after  a  dinner  of  herbs. — We  shall  have  love  with  it 
anyhow,  father  !  "  she  added,  kissing  him. 

That  day  the  minister,  who  in  his  earlier  days  had  been 
allowed  by  his  best  friends  to  be  a  little  particular  about 
his  food,  and  had  been  no  mean  connoisseur  in  wines, 
found  more  pleasure  at  his  table,  from  lightness  of  heart, 
and  the  joy  of  a  new  independence, 'than  he  had  had  for 
many  a  day.  It  added  much  also  to  his  satisfaction  with 
the  experiment,  that,  instead  of  sleeping,  as  his  custom 
was,  after  dinner,  he  was  able  to  read  without  drowsiness 
even.  Perhaps  Dorothy's  experience  was  not  quite  S(i 
satisfactory,  for  she  looked  weary  when  they  sat  dowi 
to  tea. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


THE    PARLOUR    AGAIN. 


rkv  ABER  had  never  made  any  effort  to  believe  in 
^^     a  divine  order  of  things — indeed  he   had 


never  made  strenuous  effort  to  believe  in 
anything.  It  had  never  at  all  occurred  to 
him  that  it  might  be  a  duty  to  believe.  He 
-was  a  kindly  and  not  a  repellent  man,  but  when  he 
doubted  another,  he  doubted  him  ;  it  never  occurred  to 
him  that  perhaps  he  ought  to  believe  in  that  man.  There 
must  be  a  lack  of  something,  where  a  man's  sense  of  duty 
urges  him  mainly  to  denial.  His  existence  is  a  positive 
thing— his  main  utterance  ought  to  be  positive.  I  would 
not  forget  that  the  nature  of  a  denial  may  be  such  as  to 
involve  a  strong  positive. 

To  Faber  it  seemed  the  true  and  therefore  right  thing, 
to  deny  the  existence  of  any  such  being  as  men  call  God. 
I  heartily  admit  that  such  denial  may  argue  a  nobler  con- 
dition than  that  of  the  man  who  will  reason  for  the  ex- 
istence of  what  he  calls  a  deity,  but  omits  to  order  his 
way  after  what  he  professes  to  believe  his  will.  At  the 
same  time,  his  conclusion  that  he  was  not  bound  to 
believe  in  any  God,  seemed  to  lift  a  certain  weight  ofl 
the  heart  of  the  doctor — the  weight,  namely,  that  gathers 
partly  from  the  knowledge  of  having  done  Avrong  things, 


IIIE  r.lRLOlR  AC  A IX.  \1-. 

partly  from  the  consciousness  of  not  /wV/^  altogether  right. 
It  would  be  very  unfair,  however,  to  leave  the  impression 
that  this  was  the  origin  of  all  the  relief  the  doctor  derived 
from  the  conclusion.  For  thereby  he  got  rid,  in  a  great 
measure  at  least,  of  the  notion — horrible  in  proportion  to 
the  degree  in  which  it  is  actually  present  to  the  mind, 
although,  I  suspect,  it  is  not,  in  a  true  sense,  credible  to 
any  mind — of  a  cruel,  careless,  unjust  being  at  the  head 
of  affairs.  That  such  a  notion  should  exist  at  all,  is 
mainly  the  fault  of  the  mass  of  so-called  religious  jieople, 
for  they  seem  to  believe  in,  and  certainly  proclaim  such 
a  God.  In  their  excuse  it  may  be  urged  they  tell  the  tale 
as  it  was  told  to  them  ;  but  the  fault  lies  in  this,  that,  with 
the  gospel  in  their  hands,  they  have  yet  lived  in  such  dis- 
regard of  its  precepts,  that  they  have  never  discovered 
their  representation  of  the  God  of  Truth  to  be  such, 
that  the  more  honest  a  man  is,  the  less  can  he  accept  it. 
That  the  honest  man,  however,  should  not  thereupon  set 
himself  to  see  whether  there  might  not  be  ?.  true  God 
notwithstanding,  whether  such  a  God  was  not  conceivable 
consistently  with  things  as  they  are,  whether  the  believers 
had  not  distorted  the  revelation  they  professed  to  follow  ; 
especially  that  he  should  jjrefer  to  believe  in  some  sort 
of  vitalic  machine,  equally  void  of  beneficence  and 
malevolence,  existing  because  it  cannot  help  it,  and 
giving  birth  to  all  sorts  of  creatures,  men  and  women  in- 
cluded, because  it  cannot  help  it — must  arise  from  a  con- 
dition of  being,  call  it  spiritual,  moral,  or  mental — I  can- 
not be  obliging  enough  to  add  cerebral,  because  so  I  should 
nullify  my  conclusion,  seeing  there  would  be  no  sub- 
stance left  wherein  it  could  be  wrought  out — for  which 
the  man,  I  cannot  but  think,  will  one  day  discover  that 
he  was  to  blame — for  which  a  living  God  sees  that  he  is 
to  blame,  makes  all  the  excuse  he  can,  and  will  give  the 
needful  punishment  to  the  uttermost  lash. 

There  are  some  again,  to  whom  the  idea  of  a  God 
parfect  as  they  could  imagine  him  in  love  and  devotion 
and  truth,  seems,  they  say,  too  good  to  be    true  :    such 


1-4  .  J\li~L  FA  BLR. 

have  not  yet  perceived  that  no  (iod  anything  less 
than  absolutely  glorious  in  loveliness  would  be  worth 
believing  in,  or  such  as  the  human  soul  could  believe 
in.  But  Faber  did  not  belong  to  this  class — still  less 
to  that  portion  of  it  whose  inconsolable  grief  over  the 
lack  of  such  a  God  may  any  day  blossom  into  hope  of 
finding  him.  He  was  in  practice  at  one  with  that 
portion  of  it  who,  accepting  things  at  their  worst,  find 
alleviation  for  their  sorrows  in  the  strenuous  effort  to 
make  the  best  of  them  ;  but  he  sought  to  content  himself 
with  the  order  of  things  which,  blind  and  deaf  and  non- 
willing,  he  said  had  existed  for  evermore,  most  likely — the 
thing  was  hardly  worth  discussing ;  blind,  for  we  cannot 
see  that  it  sees  ;  deaf,  for  we  cannot  hear  that  it  hears  ; 
and  without  will,  for  we  see  no  strife,  purpose,  or  change 
in  its  going ! 

There  was  no  God,  then,  and  people  would  be  more 
comfortable  to  know  it.  In  any  case,  as  there  was  none, 
they  ought  to  know  it  xA.s  to  his  certainty  of  there  being 
none,  Faber feltno  desire  to  find  one,  had  met  with  no  proof 
that  there  was  one,  and  had  reasons  for  supposing  tliat 
there  was  none.  He  had  not  searched  very  long  or 
very  wide,  or  with  any  eager  desire  to  discover  him,  if  in- 
deed there  should  be  a  God  that  hid  himself.  His 
genial  nature  delighted  in  sympathy,  and  he  sought  it 
even  in  that  whose  perfect  operation,  is  the  destruction 
of  all  sympathy.  Who  does  not  know  the  pleasure  of 
that  moment  of  nascent  communion,  when  argument  or 
expostulation  has  begun  to  tell,  conviction  begins  to 
dawn,  and  the  first  fiiint  thrill  of  response  is  felt  ?  But 
the  joy  may  be  either  of  two  very  different  kinds — delight 
in  victory  and  the  personal  success  of  persuasion,  or 
the  ecstasy  of  the  shared  vision  of  trutii,  in  which  con- 
tact souls  come  nearer  to  each  other  than  any  closest 
familiarity  can  effect.  Such  a  nearness  can  be  brought 
about  by  no  negation  however  genuine,  or  however  evil 
may  be  the  thing  denied. 

Sympathy,  then,  such  as  he  desired,  Faber  was  now  bent  on 


THE  PARLOUR  AGAIN.  125 

finding,  or  bringing  about  in  Juliet  Meredith.  He  would 
fain  get  nearer  to  her.  Something  pushed,  something 
drew  him  towards  the  lovely  phenomenon  into  which  had 
flowered  invisible  Nature's  bud  of  shapeless  protoplasm. 
He  would  have  her  trust  him,  believe  him,  love  him. 
If  he  succeeded,  so  much  the  greater  would  be  the  value 
and  the  pleasure  of  the  conciuest,  that  it  had  been  gained 
in  spite  of  all  her  prejudices  of  education  and  conscience. 
And  if  in  the  ])rocess  of  finding  truth  a  home  in  her 
bosom,  he  should  cause  her  pain  even  to  agony,  would 
not  the  tenderness  born  of  their  lonely  need  for  each 
other,  be  far  more  consoling  than  any  mere  aspiration 
after  a  visionary  comforter  ? 

Juliet  had  been,  so  far  as  her  father  was  concerned  in 
her  education,  religiously  brought  up.  No  doubt  Captain 
Meredith  was  more  fervid  than  he  was  reasonable,  but  he 
was  a  true  man,  and  in  his  regiment,  on  which  he  brought 
all  his  influence  to  bear,  had  been  regarded  with  respect, 
even  where  not  heartily  loved.  But  her  mother  was  one 
of  those  weakest  of  women  who  can  never  forget  the 
beauty  they  once  possessed,  or  quite  believe  they  have 
lost  it,  remaining,  even  after  the  very  traces  of  it  have 
vanished,  as  greedy  as  ever  of  admiration.  Her  maxims 
and  principles,  if  she  could  be  said  to  have  any  of  the 
latter,  were  not  a  litde  opposed  to  her  husband's;  but 
she  died  when  Juliet  was  only  five  years  old,  and  the 
child  grew  to  be  almost  the  companion  of  her  father. 
Hence  it  came  that  she  heard  much  religious  conversa- 
tion, often  partaking  not  a  little  of  the  character  of  dis- 
cussion and  even  of  dispute.  She  thus  became  familiar 
with  the  forms  of  a  religious  belief  as  narrow  as  its 
partisans  are  numerous.  Her  heart  did  not  remain  un- 
interested, but  she  was  never  in  earnest  sufliciently  to 
discover  what  a  thing  of  beggarly  elements  the  system 
was,  and  how  incapable  of  satisfying  any  childlike  soul. 
She  never  questioned  the  truth  of  what  she  heard,  and 
became  skilled  in  its  idioms  and  arguments  and  forms  of 
thoueht.     But   the    more    familiar    one    becomes    with 


126  PAUL  FABER. 

any  religious  system,  while  yet  the  conscience  and  will 
are  unawakened  and  obedience  has  not  begun,  the  harder 
is  it  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven. )  Such  fam- 
iliarity is  a  soul-killing  experience,  and  great  will  be  the 
excuse  for  some  of  those  sons  of  religious  parents  who 
have  gone  farther  towards  hell  than  many  born  and  bred 
thieves  and  sinners. 

When  Juliet  came  to  understand  clearly  that  her  new 
friend  did  mean  thorough-going  unbelief,  the  rejection  of 
all  the  doctrines  she  had  been  taught  by  him  whose 
memory  she  revered,  she  was  altogether  shocked,  and  for 
a  day  and  a  night  regarded  him  as  a  monster  of  wicked- 
ness. But  her  horror  was  mainly  the  reflex  of  that  with 
which  her  father  would  have  regarded  him,  and  all  that 
was  needed  to  moderate  horror  to  disapproval,  was  fam- 
iliarity with  his  doctrines  in  the  light  of  his  agreeable 
presence  and  undeniable  good  qualities.  Thoroughly 
acquainted  as  she  believed  herself  with  "  the  plan  of 
salvation,"  Jesus  of  Nazareth  was  to  her  but  the  vague 
shadow  of  something  that  was  more  than  a  man,  yet  no 
man  at  all.  I  had  nearly  said  that  what  he  came  to 
reveal  had  become  to  her  yet  more  vague  from  her  nebu- 
lous notion  of  him  who  was  its  revelation.  Her  religion 
was,  as  a  matter  of  course,  as  dusky  and  uncertain,  as 
the  object-centre  of  it  was  obscure  and  unrealized.  Since 
her  father's  death  and  her  comparative  isolation,  she  had 
read  and  thought  a  good  deal ;  some  of  my  readers  may 
even  think  she  had  read  and  thought  to  tolerable  purposes 
judging  from  her  answers  to  Faber  in  the  first  serious 
conversation  tjiey  had ;  but  her  religion  had  lain  as 
before  in  a  state  of  dull  quiescence,  until  her  late  experi- 
ence, realizing  to  her  the  idea  of  the  special  care  of  which 
she  stood  so  much  in  need,  awoke  in  her  a  keen  sense  of 
deliglit,  and  if  not  a  sense  of  gratitude  as  well,  yet  a  dull 
desire  to  be  grateful. 

The  next  day,  as  she  sat  pondering  what  had  passed  be- 
tween them,  altogether  unaware  of  her  own  weakness,  she 
was  suddenly  seized  with  the  ambitioK ' — in  its  inward  re- 


1 


THE  PARLOUR  AGAIiV.  12? 

lations  the  same  as  his — of  converting  him  to  her  beliefs. 
The  purpose  justified  an  interest  in  him  beyond  what 
gratitude  obHgated,  and  was  in  part  the  cause  why  she 
neither  shrank  from  his  society,  nor  grew  alarmed  at 
the  rapid  growth  of  their  intimacy.  But  they  only  who 
love  the  truth  simply  and  altogether,  can  really  know 
what  they  are  about. 

I  do  not  care  to  follow  the  intellectual  duel  between 
them.  Argument,  save  that  of  a  man  with  himself,  when 
council  is  held  between  heart,  will,  imagination,  consci- 
ence, vision,  and  intellect,  is  of  little  avail  or  worth. 
Nothing,  however,  could  have  suited  Faber's  desires 
better.  Under  the  shadow  of  such  difficulties  as  the 
wise  man  ponders  and  the  fool  flaunts,  difficulties  which 
have  been  difficulties  from  the  dawn  of  human  thought, 
and  wall  in  new  shapes  keep  returning  so  long  as  the  human 
understanding  yearns  to  infold  its  origin,  Faber  brought 
up  an  array  oV  arguments  utterly  destructive  of  the  wretch- 
ed theories  and  forms  of  religion  which  were  all  she 
had  to  bring  into  the  field  :  so  wretched  and  false  were 
they — feeblest  she  found  them  just  where  she  had  regarded 
them  as  invincible — that  in  destroying  them  Faber  did  even 
a  poor  part  of  tke  work  of  a  soldier  of  God  :  Mephistopheles 
describes  himself  as 

Ein  Theil  von  jener  Kraft, 
Die  stets  das  Biise  will,  und  stcts  das  Gute  schafft. 

del"  Gcist  dcr  stets  verneint. 

For  the  nature  of  Juliet's  arguments  I  must  be  content 
to  refer  any  curious  reader  to  the  false  defences  made, 
and  lies  spoken  for  God,  in  many  a  pulpit  and  many  a 
volume,  by  the  worshippers  of  letter  and  system,  who 
for  their  sakes  "accept  his  person,"  and  plead  un- 
righteously for  him.  Before  the  common  sense  of  Faber, 
they  went  down  like  toys,  and  Juliet,  without  consciously 
yielding  at  first,  soon  came  to  perceive  that  they  were 
worse    than   worthless  —  weapons   whose  handles   were 


128  PAUL  FABER. 

sharper  than  their  blades.  She  had  no  others,  nor  metal 
of  which  to  make  any ;  and  what  with  the  persuasive  in- 
fluence of  the  man,  and  pleasure  in  the  mere  exercise  of 
her  understanding,  became  more  and  more  interested  aa 
i;he  saw  the  drift  of  his  argument,  and  apprehended  the 
weight  of  what  truth  lay  upon  his  side.  For  even  the 
falsest  argument  is  sustained  in  virtue  of  some  show  of 
truth,  or  perhaps  some  crumb  of  reality  belonging  to  it. 
The  absolute  lie,  if  such  be  frameable  by  lips  of  men, 
can  look  only  the  blackness  of  darkness  it  is.  The  lie 
that  can  hurt,  hurts  in  the  strength  of  the  second  lie  in 
which  it  is  folded — a  likeness  to  the  truth.  It  would 
have  mattered  little  that  she  was  driven  from  line  after 
line  of  her  defence,  had  she  not,  while  she  seemed  to 
herself  to  be  its  champion,  actually  lost  sight  of  that 
for  which  she  thought  she  was  striving. 

It  added  much  to  Faber's  influence  on  Juliet,  that 
a  tone  of  pathos  and  an  element  of  poetry  generally 
pervaded  the  forms  of  his  denial.  The  tone  was  the 
more  ]icnetrating  that  it  veiled  the  pride  behind  it  all, 
the  pride  namely  of  an  unhealthily  conscious  individuality, 
the  pride  of  self  as  self,  which  makes  a  man  the  centre 
of  his  own  universe,  and  a  mockery  to  all  the  demons 
of  the  real  universe.  That  man  only  who  rises  above  the 
small  yet  mighty  jjredilection,  who  sets  the  self  of  his  own 
consciousness  behind  his  back,  and  cherishes  only  the 
self  of  the  Father's  thought,  the  angel  that  beholds  the 
eternal  face,  that  man  only  is  a  free  and  noble  being,  he 
only  breathes  the  air  of  the  infinite.  Another  may  well 
deny  the  existence  of  any  such  Father,  any  such  in- 
finite, for  he  knows  nothing  of  the  nature  of  either,  and  his 
testimony  for  it  would  be  as  worthless  as  that  is  which  he 
gives  against  it. 

The  nature  of  Juliet  Meredith  was  true  and  trusting — 
but  in  respect  of  her  mother  she  had  been  sown  in  weak- 
ness, and  she  was  not  yet  raised  in  strength.  Because  of 
his  wife,  Captain  Meredith  had  more  than  once  had  to 
exchange  regiments.     But  from  him  Juliet  had  inherited 


THE  PARLOUR  AGAIN.  129 

a  certain  strength  of  honest  pvn-pose,  which  had  stood 
him  in  better  stead  tlian  the  whole  sum  of  his  gifts  and 
acquirements,  which  was  by  no  means  despicable. 

Late  one  lovely  evening  in  the  early  summer,  they  sat 
together  in  the  dusky  parlour  of  the  cottage,  with  the 
window  to  the  garden  open.  The  sweetest  of  western 
airs  came  in,  \\\i\\  a  foint  scent  chielly  of  damp  earth, 
moss,  and  primroses,  in  which,  to  the  pensive  imagina- 
tion, the  faded  yellow  of  the  sunset  seemed  to  bear  a  part. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  we  must  shut  the  window,  Miss 
Meredith,"  said  the  doctor,  rising.  "  You  must  always 
be  jealous  of  the  night  air.  It  will  never  be  friendly  to 
you." 

"What  enemies  we  have  all  about  us!"  she  returned 
with  a  slight  shiver,  which  Faber  attributed  to  the  enemy 
in  question,  and  feared  his  care  had  not  amounted  to  pre- 
caution. "  It  is  strange,"  she  went  on,  "  that  all  things 
should  conspire,  or  at  least  rise,  against  '  the  roof  and 
crown  of  things,'  as  Tennyson  calls  us.  Are  they  jealous 
of  us  ?" 

"Clearly,  at  all  events,  we  are  not  at  home  amidst 
them — not  genuinely  so,"  admitted  the  doctor. 

"  And  yet  you  say  we  are  sprung  of  them  ?"  said  Juliet. 

"  We  have  lifted  ourselves  above  them,"  rejoined  the 
doctor,  "and  must  conquer  them  next." 

"  And  until  we  conquer  them,"  suggested  Juliet,  "  our 
lifting  above  them  is  in  vain  ?" 

"For  we  return  to  them,"  assented  Faber;  and  silence 
fell. — "Yes,"  he  resumed,  "it  is  sad.  The  upper  air  is 
sweet,  and  the  heart  of  man  loves  the  sun ; — " 

"Then,"  interrupted  Juliet,  "why  would  you  have  m© 
willing  to  go  down  to  the  darkness  ?" 

"I  would  not  have  you  willing.  I  would  have  you 
love  the  light  as  you  do.  We  cannot  but  love  the  light,  for 
it  is  good ;  and  the  sorrow  that  we  must  leave  it,  and  that 
so  soon,  only  makes  it  dearer.  The  sense  of  coming  loss 
is,  or  ought  to  be,  the  strongest  of  all  bonds  between  the 
creatures  of  a  day.      The  sweetest,  saddest,  most  en- 

K 


130  rAUL  FABER. 

trancing  songs  that  love  can  sing,  must  be  but  variations 
on  this  one  theme. — '  The  morning  is  dear ;  tlie  dew 
mounts  heavenward ;  the  odour  spreads  ;  the  sun  looks 
over  the  hill ;  the  Avorld  breaks  into  laughter  :  let  us  love 
one  another  !  The  sun  grows  hot,  the  shadow  lies  deep  ; 
let  us  sit  in  it,  and  remember;  the  sea  lies  flashing  in 
green,  dulled  with  purple ;  the  peacock  spreads  his 
glories,  a  living  garden  of  flowers ;  all  is  mute  but  the 
rush  of  the  stream  :  let  us  love  one  another  !  The  soft 
evening  draws  nigh  ;  the  dew  is  coming  dov\ai  again  ;  the 
air  is  cool,  dusky,  and  thin ;  it  is  sweeter  than  the 
morning ;  other  worlds  of  death  gleam  out  of  the  deepen- 
ing sky  ;  the  birds  close  their  wings  and  hide  their  heads, 
for  death  is  near  :  let  us  love  one  another !  The  night  is 
come,  and  there  is  no  morrow ;  it  is  dark ;  the  end  is 
nigh ;  it  grows  cold  ;  in  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we 
tremble,  we  sink ;  a  moment  and  we  are  no  more ;  ah  ! 
ah,  beloved  !  let  us  love,  let  us  cleave  to  one  another,  for 
we  die  !'  " 

But  it  seems  to  me  that  the  pitifulness  with  which  we 
ought  to  regard  each  other  in  the  horror  of  being  the 
«)ffspring  of  a  love  we  do  not  love,  in  the  danger  of 
wandering  ever,  the  children  of  light,  in  the  midst  of 
darkness,  immeasurably  surpasses  the  pitifulness  de- 
manded by  the  fancy  that  we  are  the  creatures  of  but  a 
day. 

Moved  in  his  soul  by  the  sound  of  his  own  words,  but 
himself  the  harp  upon  which  the  fingers  of  a  mightier 
Nature  than  he  knew  were  playing  a  ]irelude  to  a  grander 
phantasy  than  he  could  comprehend,  Faber  caught  the 
hand  of  Juliet  where  it  gleamed  white  in  the  gathering 
gloom.  But  she  withdrew  it,  saying  in  a  tone  \\-hich 
through  the  darkness  seemed  to  him  to  come  from  afar, 
tinged  with  mockery, 

"You  ought  to  have  been  a  poet — not  a  doctor.  Mr. 
Faber !" 

The  jar  of  her  apparent  coolness  brought  him  back 
with  a  sliock  to  the  commonplace.      He  almost  shud- 


THE  PARLOUR  AGAIN.  131 

dered.  It  was  like  a  gust  of  icy  wind  piercing  a  summer 
night. 

"  I  trust  the  doctor  can  rule  the  poet,"  he  said, 
recovering  his  self-possession  with  an  eflbrt,  and  rising. 

"The  doctor  ought  at  least  to  keep  the  poet  from 
falsehood.  Is  false  poetry  any  belter  than  false  religion?" 
returned  Juliet. 

"  I  do  not  quite  see — " 

*'  Your  day  is  not  a  true  picture  of  life  such  as  you 
would  make  it. — Let  me  see  !     I  will  give  you  one. — Sit 

down. — Give  me  time. '  The   morning  is  dark  •  the 

mist  hangs  and  will  not  rise ;  the  sodden  leaves  sink 
under  the  foot ;  overhead  the  boughs  are  bare ;  the  cold 
creeps  into  bone  and  marrow  :  let  us  love  one  another  1 
The  sun  is  buried  in  miles  of  vapour;  the  birds  sit  mute 
on  the  damp  twies  ;  the  gathered  drizzle  slowly  drips 
from  the  eaves  ;  the  wood  will  not  burn  in  the  grate  ; 
there  is  a  crust  in  the  larder,  no  wine  in  the  cellar :  let 
us  love  one  another  !'  " 

"  Yes  !"  cried  Faber,  again  seizing  her  hand,  "  let  us 
but  love,  and  I  am  content  1" 

Again  she  withdrew  it. 

"  Nay,  but  hear  my  song  out,"  she  said,  turning  her 
face  towards  the  window. — In  the  fading  light  he  saw  a 
wild  look  of  pain,  which  vanished  in  a  strange,  bitter 
smile  as  she  resumed.- — •"  '  The  ashes  of  life's  volcano  are 
falling  ;  they  bepowder  my  hair ;  its  fires  have  withered 
the  rose  of  my  lips  ;  my  forehead  is  wrinkled,  my  cheeks 
are  furrowed,  my  brows  are  sullen  ;  I  am  weary,  and  dis- 
contented, and  unlovely :  ah,  let  us  love  one  another ! 
The  wheels  of  time  grind  on  ;  my  heart  is  sick,  and  cares 
not  for  thee;  I  care  not  for  myself,  and  thou  art  no 
longer  lovely  to  me ;  I  can  no  more  recall  wherefore  I 
desired  thee  once  ;  I  long  only  for  the  endless  sleep  ; 
death  alone  hath  charms  :  to  say,  Let  us  love  one  another, 
were  now  a  mockery  too  bitter  to  be  felt.  Even  sadness 
is  \\ithered.  No  more  can  it  make  me  sorrowful  to  brood 
over  the  days  that  are  gone,  or  to  remember  the  song  that 
K  2 


132  PAUL  FABER. 

once  would  have  made  my  heart  a  fountain  of  tears.  Ah, 
hah  !  the  folly  to  think  we  could  love  to  the  end  !  But 
I  care  not ;  the  fancy  served  its  turn  ;  and  there  is  a  grave 
for  thee  and  me — apart  or  together  I  care  not,  so  I  cease. 
Thou  needst  not  love  me  any  more  ;  I  care  not  for  thy 
love.  I  hardly  care  for  the  blessed  darkness  itself.  Give 
me  no  sweet  oblivious  antidote,  no  precious  poison  such 
as  once  I  prayed  for  when  I  feared  the  loss  of  love,  that 
it  might  open  to  me  the  gate  of  forgetfulness,  take  me 
softly  in  unseen  arms,  and  sink  with  me  into  the  during 
dark.  No  ;  I  will,  not  calmly,  but  ia  utter  indifference, 
await  the  end.  I  do  not  love  thee  ;  but  I  can  eat,  and  I 
enjoy  my  wine,  and  my  rubber  of  whist, '  " 

She  broke  into  a  dreadful  laugh.  It  was  all  horribly 
unnatural !  .She rose,  and  in  the  deepening  twilight  seemed 
to  draw  herself  up  far  beyond  her  height,  then  turned,  and 
looked  out  on  the  shadowy  last  of  the  sunset.  Faber 
rose  also.  He  felt  her  shudder  though  she  was  not  within 
two  arm's-lengths  of  him.     He  sprang  to  her  side. 

"  Miss  Meredith — Juliet — you  have  suffered  !  The 
world  has  been  too  hard  for  you  !  Let  me  do  all  I  can 
to  make  up  for  it !  1  too  know  what  suffering  is,  and  my 
heart  is  bleeding  for  j'ou  !" 

"  What !  are  not  you  a  part  of  the  world  ?  Are  you  not 
her  last-born — the  perfection  of  her  heartlessness  ? — and 
will  you  act  the  farce  of  consolation  ?  Is  it  the  last  stroke 
of  the  eternal  mockery?" 

"  Juliet,"  he  said,  and  once  more  took  her  hand,  "  I 
love  you." 

"  As  a  man  may  !"'  she  rejoined  with  scorn,  and  pulled 
her  hand  from  his  grasp.  "  No  !  such  love  as  you  can 
give,  is  too  poor  even  for  me.  Love  you  I  will  not. 
If  you  speak  to  me  so  again,  you  will  drive  me  away. 
Talk  to  me  as  you  will  of  your  void  idol.  Tell  me  of 
the  darkness  of  his  dwelling,  and  the  sanctuary  it  affords 
to  poor,  tormented,  spectre-hunted  humanity  ;  but  do  not 
talk  to  me  of  love  also,  for  where  your  idol  is,  love 
cannot  be." 


THE  PARLOUR  AGATK  133 

Faber  made  a  gentle  apology,  and  withdrew — abashed 
and  hurt — vexed  with  himself,  and  annoyed  with  his 
failure. 

The  moment  he  was  gone,  she  cast  herself  on  the  sofa 
with  a  choked  scream,  and  sobbed,  and  ground  her  teeth, 
but  shed  no  tear.  Life  had  long  been  poor,  arid,  vague  ; 
now  there  was  not  left  even  the  luxury  of  grief !  Where 
all  was  loss,  no  loss  was  worth  a  tear. 

"  It  were  good  for  me  that  I  had  never  been  born  !" 
she  cried. 

But  the  doctor  came  again  and  again,  and  looked 
devotion,  though  he  never  spoke  of  love.  He  avoided 
also  for  a  time  any  further  pressing  of  his  opinions— - 
talked  of  poetry,  of  science,  of  nature — all  he  said 
tinged  with  the  same  sad  glow.  Then  by  degrees  direct 
denial  came  up  again,  and  Juliet  scarcely  attempted 
opposition.  Gradually  she  got  quite  used  to  his  doctrine, 
and  as  she  got  used  to  it,  it  seemed  less  dreadful,  and 
rather  less  sad.  What  wickedness  could  there  be  in 
denying  a  God  whom  the  very  works  attributed  to  him 
declared  not  to  exist !  Mr.  Faber  was  a  man  of  science, 
and  knew  it.  She  could  see  for  herself  that  it  must  draw 
closer  the  bonds  between  human  beings,  to  learn  that 
there  was  no  such  power  to  hurt  them  or  aid  them,  or 
to  claim  lordship  over  them,  and  enslave  them  to  his 
will.  For  Juliet  had  never  had  a  glimpse  of  the  idea,  that 
in  oneness  with  the  love-creating  Will,  alone  lies  freedom 
for  the  love-created.  When  Faber  perceived  that  his 
words  had  begun  and  continued  to  influence  her,  he, 
on  his  part,  grew  more  kindly  disposed  towards  her 
superstitions. 

Let  me  here  remark  that,  until  we  see  God  as  he  is, 
and  are  changed  into  his  likeness,  all  our  beliefs  must 
partake  more  or  less  of  superstition  ;  but  if  there  be  a 
God,  the  greatest  superstition  of  all  will  be  found  to  have 
consisted  in  denying  him. 

"  Do  not  think  me  incapable,"  he  said  one  day,  after 
they  had  at  length  slid  back  into  their  former  freedom 


134  PAUL  FABER. 

with  each  other,  "  of  seeing  much  that  is  lovely  and  gra- 
cious in  the  orthodox  fancies  of  religion.  Much  depends, 
of  course,  upon  the  nature  of  the  person  who  holds  them. 
No  belief  could  be  beautiful  in  a  mind  that  is  unlovely. 
A  sonnet  of  Shakspere  can  be  no  better  than  a  burnt 
cinder  in  such  a  mind  as  Mrs.  Ramshorn's.  But  there  is 
Mr.  Wingfold,  the  curate  of  the  abbey-church  !  a  true 
honest  man,  who  will  give  even  an  infidel  like  me  fair 
play  :  nothing  that  finds  acceptance  with  him  can  be 
other  than  noble,  whether  it  be  true  or  not.  I  fear 
he  expects  me  to  come  over  to  him  one  day.  1 
am  sorry  he  will  be  disappointed,  for  he  is  a  fellow 
quite  free  from  the  flummery  of  his  profession.  For 
my  part,  I  do  not  see  Avhy  two  friends  should  not 
consent  to  respect  each  other's  opinions,  letting  the  one 
do  his  best  without  a  God  to  hinder  him,  and  the  other 
his  best  with  his  belief  in  one  to  aid  him.  Such  a  pair 
might  be  the  most  emulous  of  rivals  in  good  works." 

Juliet  returned  no  satisfactory  response  to  this  tentative 
remark ;  but  it  was  from  no  objection  any  longer  in  her 
mind  to  such  a  relation  in  the  abstract.  She  had  not  yet 
at  all  consented  with  herself  to  abandon  the  faith  of  her 
father,  but  she  did  not  see,  and  indeed  it  were  hard  for 
any  one  in  her  condition  to  see,  why  a  man  and  a  woman, 
the  one  denying  after  Faber's  fashion,  the  other  believing 
after  hers,  should  not  live  together,  and  love  and  help  each 
other.  Of  all  valueless  things,  a  merely  speculative  theology 
is  of  the  most  valueless.  To  her,  God  had  never  been 
much  more  than  a  name — a  name,  it  is  true,  that  always 
occurred  to  her  in  any  vivid  moment  of  her  life ;  but  the 
being  whose  was  that  name,  was  vague  to  her  as  a  storm 
of  sand — hardly  so  much  her  father  as  was  the  first 
forgotten  ancestor  of  her  line.  And  now  it  was  sad  for 
her  that  at  such  a  time  of  peculiar  emotion,  when  the 
heart  is  ready  to  turn  of  itself  towards  its  unseen  origin, 
feeling  after  the  fountain  of  its  love,  the  very  occasion 
of  the  tide  Godward  should  be  an  influence  destructive 
of  the  same.     Under   the  growing   fascination   of  the 


THE  PARLOUR  AGAIN.  I3S 

handsome,  noble-minded  doctor,  slie  vras  fast  losing 
v/hat  little  shadow  0/  faith  she  had  possessed.  The 
theology  she  had  attempted  to  defend  was  so  iaulty,  so 
unfair  to  God,  that  Faber's  atheism  had  an  advantage 
over  it  as  easy  as  it  was  great.  His  unbelief  v,-as  less 
selfish  than  Juliet's  faith  ;  conseciuently  her  faith  sank, 
as  her  conscience  rose  meeting  what  was  true  in  Faber's 
utterances.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  when  she  op- 
posed hes  uttered  for  the  truth,  to  truths  uttered  for  the 
lie  ?  the  truth  itself  she  had  never  been  true  enough  to 
look  in  the  face.  As  her  arguments,  yea  the  very  things 
she  argued  for,  went  down  before  him,  her  faith,  which, 
to  be  faith,  should  have  been  in  the  living  source  of  all 
true  argument,  found  no  object,  was  swept  away  like  the 
uprooted  weed  it  was,  and  whelmed  in  returning  chaos._ 

"  If  such  is  your  God,"  he  said,  "  I  do  him  a  favour  in 
denying  his  existence,  for  his  very  being  would  be  a  dis- 
grace to  himself.  At  times,  as  I  go  my  rounds,  and 
think  of  the  horrors  of  misery  and  suffering  before  me,  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  out  on  a  campaign  against  an  Evil 
supreme,  the  author  of  them  all.  But  when  I  reflect  that 
he  must  then  actually  create  from  very  joy  in  the  in- 
fliction and  sight  of  agony,  I  am  ashamed  of  my  foolish 
and  cruel,  though  but  momentary  imagination,  and — 
'  There  can  be  no  such  being  !'  I  sa)^  '  1  but  labour  in  a 
region  of  inexorable  law,  blind  as  Justice  herself;  law 
that  works  for  good  in  the  main,  and  whose  carelessness 
of  individual  suffering  it  is  for  me,  and  all  who  know  in 
any  way  how,  to  supplement  with  the  individual  care  of 
man  for  his  fellow-men,  who,  either  from  Nature's  own 
necessity,  or  by  neglect  or  violation  of  her  laws,  find 
themselves  in  a  sea  of  troubles.'  For  Nature  herself,  to 
the  man  who  will  work  in  harmony  with  her,  affords  the^ 
means  of  alleviation,  of  restoration  even — who  knows  if 
not  of  something  better  still? — the  means,  that  is,  of 
encountering  the  ills  that  result  from  the  breach  of  her 
own  laws ;  and  the  best  the  man  who  would  help 
his  fellows  can  do,  is  to  search  after  and  find  such  other 


136  PAUL  FABER. 

laws,  Avhose  applied  operation  will  restore  the  general 
conduction,  and  render  life  after  all  an  endurable,  if  not 
a  desirable  thing." 

"  But  you  can  do  nothing  with  death,"  said  Juliet. 

"  Nothing — yet— alas  !" 

"  Is  death  a  law,  or  a  breach  of  law,  then  ?"  she 
asked. 

"That  is  question  I  cannot  answer." 

"  In  any  case,  were  it  not  better  to  let  the  race  die  out, 
instead  of  laboriously  piecing  and  patching  at  a  too  old 
garment,  and  so  leave  room  for  a  new  race  to  come  up, 
which  the  fruit  of  experience,  both  sweet  and  bitter, 
left  behind  in  books,  might  enable  to  avoid  like  ruin  ?" 

"  Ages  before  they  were  able  to  read  our  books,  they 
would  have  broken  the  same  laws,  found  the  same  evils, 
and  be  as  far  as  we  are  now  beyond  the  help  of  foregone 
experiences  :  they  would  have  the  experience  itself,  of 
whose  essence  it  is,  that  it  is  still  too  late." 

"  Then  would  not  the  kindest  thing  be  to  poison  the 
race — as  men  on  the  prairies  meet  fire  with  fire — and  so 
with  death  foil  Death  and  have  done  with  dying  ?" 

"It  seems  to  me  better  to  hve  on  in  the  hope  that 
some  one  may  yet — in  some  far-off  age  it  may  only  be, 
but  what  a  thing  if  it  should  be  ! — discover  the  law  of 
death,  learn  how  to  meet  it,  and,  with  its  fore-runners, 
disease  and  decay,  banish  it  from  the  world.  Would 
you  crush  the  dragonfly,  the  moth,  or  the  bee,  because 
its  days  are  so  few?  Rather  would  you  not  pitifully 
rescue  them,  that  they  might  enjoy  to  their  natural  end 
the  wild  intoxication  of  being  ?" 

"Ah,  but  they  are  happy  while  they  live  !" 

"  So  also  are  men — all  men — for  parts  of  their  time 
How  many,  do  you  think,  would  thank  me  for  the  oftered 
poison  ?" 

Talk  after  talk  of  this  kind,  which  the  scope  of  my 
history  forbids  me  to  follow,  took  place  between  them, 
until  at  length  Juliet,  generally  silenced,  came  to  be 
silenced  not  unwillingly.     All  the  time,   their   common 


THU  r-ARLOOR  AGAIN.  137 

Lumanity,  each  perceiving  that  the  other  had  suffered,  was 
urging  to  mutual  consolation.  And  all  the  time,  that 
(^ysterious  force,  inscrutable  as  creation  itself,  which  ,' 
fdraws  the  individual  man  and  woman  together,  was  ) 
(mightily  at  work  between  them — a  force  which,  terrible  as 
IS  the  array  of  its  attendant  shadows,  will  at  length  appear 
to  have  been  one  of  the  most  powerful  in  the  redemption 
of  the  world.  But  Juliet  did  nothing,  said  nothing,  to 
attract  Faber.  He  would  have  cast  himself  before  her  as  a 
slave  begging  an  owner,  but  for  something  in  her  carriage 
which  constantly  prevented  him.  At  one  time  he  read  it 
as  an  unforgotten  grief,  at  another  as  a  cherished  affec- 
tion, and  trembled  at  the  thought  of  the  agonies  that 
might  be  in  store  for  him. 

Weeks  passed,  and  he  had  not  made  one  inquiry  after 
a  situation  for  her.  It  was  not  because  he  would  gladly 
have  prolonged  the  present  arrangement  of  things,  but 
that  he  found  it  almost  impossible  to  bring  himself  to 
talk  about  her.  If  she  would  but  accept  him,  he  thought — ■ 
then  there  would  be  no  need  !  But  he  dared  not  urge 
her — mainly  from  fear  of  failure,  not  at  all  from  excess 
of  modesty,  seeing  he  soberly  believed  such  love  and  devo- 
tion as  his,  worth  the  acceptance  of  any  woman — even 
while  he  believed  also,  that  to  be  loved  of  a  true  woman"~\ 
/  was  the  one  only  thing  which  could  make  up  for  the  > 
V  enormous  swindle  of  life, ,  in  which  man  must  ever  be  a 
sorrow  to  himself,  as  ever  lagging  behind  his  own  child, 
his  ideal.  Even  for  this,  the  worm  that  must  for 
ever  lie  gnawing  in  the  heart  of  humanity,  it  would 
be  consolation  enough  to  pluck  together  the  roses 
of  youth :  they  had  it  in  their  own  power  to  die 
while  their  odour  was  yet  red.  Why  did  she  repel 
him  ?  Doubtless,  he  concluded  ever  and  again,  because, 
with  her  lofty  ideal  of  love,  a  love  for  this  world  only, 
seemed  to  her  a  love  not  worth  the  stooping  to  take.  If 
he  could  but  persuade  her  that  the  love  offered  in  the 
agony  of  the  fire  must  be  a  nobler  love  than  that  whis- 
pered from  a  bed  of  roses,  then    perhaps,  dissolved  in 


138  PAUL  FABER. 

confluent  sadness  and  sweetness,  she  would  hold  out  t-,? 
him  the  chalice  of  her  heart,  and  the  one  pearl  of  tht 
world  would  yet  be  his — a  woman  all  his  own — pure  as  a 
flower,  sad  as  tlie  night,  and  deep  as  nature  unfathomable. 
He  had  a  grand  idea  of  Avoman.  He  had  been  built 
with  a  goddess-niche  in  his  soul,  and  thought  how  he 
would  worship  the  woman  that  could  fill  it.  There  was  a 
time  when  she  must,  beyond  question,  be  one  whose 
radiant  mirror  had  never  reflected  form  of  man  but  his  : 
now  he  would  be  content  if  for  him  she  would  abjure 
and  obliterate  her  past.  To  make  the  woman  who  had 
loved  forget  utterly,  was  a  greater  victory,  he  said,  than  to 
wake  lovein  the  heart  of  a  girl,  and  would  yield  him  a  finer 
treasure,  a  richer  conquest,  t  Only,  pure  as  snow  she 
must  be — pure  as  the  sun  himself!  Paul  Faber  was 
absolutely  tyrannous  in  his  notions  as  to  feminine  purity. 
Like  the  diamond  shield  of  Prince  Arthur,  Knight  of 
Magnificence,  must  be  the  purity  that  would  satisfy  this 
lord  of  the  race  who  could  live  without  a  God  !  ^^''as  he 
then  such  a  master  of  purity  himself?  one  so  immaculate 
that  in  him  such  aspiration  was  no  presumption  ?  Was 
what  he  knew  himself  to  be,  an  idea  to  mate  with  his  un- 
spotted ideal  ?  The  notion  men  have  of  their  own  worth, 
and  of  claims  founded  thereon,  is  amazing  ;  most  amaz- 
ing of  all  is  what  a  man  will  set  up  to  himself  as  the 
standard  of  the  woman  he  will  marry.  What  the  woman 
may  have  a  right  to  claim,  never  enters  his  thought.  He 
never  doubts  the  right  or  righteousness  of  aspiring  to  wed 
a  woman  between  whose  nature  and  his  lies  a  gulf,  wide 
as  between  an  angel  praising  God,  and  a  devil  taking 
refuge  from  him  in  a  swine.  Never  a  shadow  of  com- 
punction crosses  the  leprous  soul,  as  he  stretches  forth 
his  arms  to  enfold  the  clean  Avoman !  Ah,  white 
dove !  thou  must  lie  for  a  while  among  the  pots. 
If  only  thy  mother  be  not  more  to  blame  than  the 
wretch  that  acts  but  after  his  kind  !  He  does  not  die 
Df  self-loathing  !  how  then  could  he  imagine  the  horror 
3)f  disgust  with  which  a  glimpse  of  him  such  as  he  is 


THE  PARLOUR  AGAIN.  139 

would  blast  the  soul  of  the  woman  ?  Yet  has  he — 
what  is  it  ? — the  virtue  ?  the  pride  ?  or  the  cruel  insolence  ? 
— to  shrink  witli  rudest  abhorrence  from  one  who  is,  in 
nature  and  liistory  and  ruin,  his  fitting  and  proper  mate  ! 
To  see  only  how  a  man  will  be  content  to  be  himself  the 
thing  which  he  scorns  another  for  being,  might  well  be  . 
enough  to  send  any  one  crying  to  the  God  tliere  niay  be, 
to  come  between  him  and  himself.  Lord  !  what  a  turning 
of  things  upside  down  there  will  be  one  day  !  What  a 
settmg  of  lasts  hrst,  and  firsts  last  1  y 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE     PARK     AT     NESTLEY. 


cUST  inside  the  park,  on  a  mossy  knoll,  a 
little  way  from  the  ancient  wrought-iron 
gate  that  opened  almost  upon  the  one 
street  of  Owlkirk,  the  rector  dug  the  foun- 
dation of  his  chapel — an  oblong  Gothic 
hall,  of  two  squares  and  a  half,  capable 
of  seating  all  in  the  parish  nearer  to  it  than  to  the  abbey 
church.  In  his  wife's  eyes,  Mr.  Bevis  was  now  an  abso- 
lute saint,  for  not  only  had  he  begun  to  build  a  chapel  in 
his  own  grounds,  but  to  read  prayers  in  his  own  church  ! 
She  was  not  the  only  one,  however,  who  remarked  how 
devoutly  he  read  them,  and  his  presence  was  a  great 
comfort  to  Wingfold.  He  often  objected  to  what  his 
curate  preached — but  only  to  his  face,  and  seldom  when 
they  were  not  alone.  There  was  policy  in  this  restraint  : 
he  had  come  to  see  that  in  all  probability  he  would  have 
to  give  in — that  his  curate  would  most  likely  satisfy  him 
that  he  was  right.  The  relation  between  them  was  mar- 
vellous and  lovely.  The  rector's  was  a  quiet  awakening, 
a  gentle  second  birth  almost  in  old  age.  But  then  he 
had  been  but  a  boy  all  the  time,  and  a  very  good  sort  of 
boy.  He  had  acted  in  no  small  measure  according  to  the 
light  he  had,  and  time  was  of  course  given  him  to  grow 
in.  It  is  not  the  world  alone  that  requires  the  fulness  of 
its  time  to  come,  ere  it  can  receive  a  revelation ;  the  in- 


THE  PARK  A  T  NES TIE  V.  14 1 

dividual  also  has  to  pass  through  his  various  stages  of 
Pagan,  Guebre,  Moslem,  Jew,  Essene, — God  knows  what 
all — before  he  can  begin  to  see  and  understand  the  living 
Christ.  The  child  has  to  pass  through  all  the  phases  of 
lower  animal  life  ;  when  change  is  arrested,  he  is  born 
a  monster;  and  in  many  a  Christian  the  rudiments  of 
former  stages  are  far  from  extinct — not  seldom  revive,  and 
for  the  time  seem  to  reabsorb  the  development,  making 
indeed  a  monstrous  show. 

"  For  myself," — I  give  a  passage  from  Wingfold's  note- 
book, written  for  his  wife's  reading — "  I  feel  sometimes 
as  if  I  were  yet  but  a  Pagan,  struggling  hard  to  break 
through  where  I-see  a  glimmer  of  something  better,  called 
Christianity.  In  any  case  what  I  have,  can  be  but  a 
foretaste  of  what  I  have  yet  to  l^e;  and  if  so,  then  indeed 
is  there  a  glory  laid  up  for  them  that  will  have  God,  the  /of 
their  /,  to  throne  it  in  the  temple  he  has  built,  to  pervade 
the  life  he  has  //fed  out  of  himself.  My  soul  is  now  as  a 
chaos  with  a  hungry  heart  of  order  buried  beneath  its 
slime,  that  longs  and  longs  for  the  moving  of  the  breath 
of  God  over  its  water  and  mud." 

The  foundation-stone  of  the  chapel  was  to  be  laid  with 
a  short  and  simple  ceremony,  at  which  no  clergy  but 
themselves  were  to  be  present.  The  rector  had  not  con- 
sented, and  the  curate  had  not  urged,  that  it  should  re- 
main unconsecrated  ;  it  was  therefore  uncertain,  so  far 
at  least  as  Wingfold  knew,  whether  it  was  to  be  chapel 
or  lecture  hall.  In  either  case  it  was  for  the  use  and 
benefit  of  the  villagers,  and  they  were  all  invited  to  be 
present.  A  few  of  the  neighbours  who  were  friends  of 
the  rector  and  his  wife,  were  also  invited,  and  among  them 
was  Miss  Meredith. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bevis  had  long  ere  now  called  upon  her, 
and  found  her,  as  Mrs.  Bevis  said,  fit  for  any  society.  She 
had  lunched  several  times  with  them,  and,  her  health 
being  now  greatly  restored,  was  the  readier  to  acceptthe 
present  invitation,  that  she  was  growing  again  anxious 
about  employment. 


142  PAUL  FABER. 

Almost  every  one  was  taken  with  her  sweet  manner, 
shaded  with  sadness.  At  one  time  self-dissatisfaction 
had  made  her  too  anxious  to  please  :  in  the  mirror  of  other 
minds  she  sought  a  less  unfavourable  reflection  of  herself. 
But  trouble  had  greatly  modified  this  tendency,  and  taken 
the  too-much  out  of  her  courtesy. 

She  and  Mrs.  Puckridge  went  together,  and  Faber, 
calling  soon  after,  found  the  door  locked.  He  saw  the 
gathering  in  the  park,  however,  had  heard  something 
about  the  ceremony,  concluded  they  were  assisting,  and, 
after  a  little  questioning  with  himself,  led  his  horse  to  the 
gate,  made  fast  the  reins  to  it,  went  in,  and  approached  the 
little  assembly.  Ere  he  reached  it,  he  saw  them  kneel, 
whereupon  he  made  a  circuit  and  got  behind  a  tree,  for  he 
v.'ould  not  willingly  seem  rude,  and  he  dared  not  be  hypo- 
critical. Thence  he  descried  Juliet  kneeling  with  the  rest, 
and  could  not  help  being  rather  annoyed.  Neither  could 
he  help  being  a  little  struck  with  the  unusual  kind  of  prayer 
the  curate  was  making  ;  for  he  spoke  as  to  the  God  of 
workmen,  the  Ciod  of  invention  and  creation,  who  made 
the  hearts  of  his  creatures  so  like  his  own  that  they  must 
build  and  make. 

When  the  observance  was  over,  and  the  people  were 
scattering  in  groups,  till  they  should  be  summoned  to  the 
repast  prepared  for  them,  the  rector  caught  sight  of  the 
doctor,  and  went  to  him. 

"  Ha,  Faber !"  he  cried,  holding  out  his  hand,  "  this  is 
kind  of  you  !  I  should  hardly  have  expected  you  to  be 
present  on  such  an  occasion  !" 

"  I  hoped  my  presence  would  not  offend  you,"  answered 
the  doctor.  "  I  did  not  presume  to  come  closer  than 
just  within  earshot  of  your  devotions.  Neither  must 
J70U  think  me  unfriendly  for  keeping  aloof" 

■"  Certainly  not.  I  would  not  have  you  guiUy  of  irre- 
verence." 

"  That  could  hardly  be,  if  I  recognized  no  presence." 

"  There  was  at  least,"  rejoined  Mr.  Bevis,  "  the  pre- 
sence of  a  good  many  of  your  neighbours,  to  whom  you 
never  fail  to  recognize  your  duty,  and  that  is  the  second 


THE  PARK  A  T  N'ES  TLB  Y.  143 

half  of  religion  :  would  it  not  have  showed  want  of  rever- 
ence towards  them,  to  bring  an  unsympathetic  presence 
into  the  midst  of  their  devotion  ?" 

"  That  I  grant,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  But  it  may  be,"  said  the  curate,  who  had  come  up 
while  they  talked,  "  that  v.-hat  you,  perhaps  justifiably, 
refuse  to  recognize  as  irreverence,  has  its  root  in  some 
fault  of  which  you  are  not  yet  aware." 

"  Then  I'm  not  to  blame  for  it,"'  said  Faber  quietly. 

"  But  you  might  be  terribly  the  loser  by  it." 

"  That  is,  you  mean,  if  there  should  be  one  to  whom 
reverence  is  due  ?" 

"Yes." 

'•  Would  that  be  flxir,  then — in  an  all-wise,  that  is, 
towards  an  ignorant  being?" 

"  I  think  not.  Therefore  I  look  for  something  to 
reveal  it  to  you.  But,  although  1  dare  not  say  you  are 
to  blame,  because  that  would  be  to  take  upon  myself  the 
office  of  a  judge,  which  is  God's  only,  he  only  being  able 
to  give  fair  play,  I  would  yet  have  you  search  yourself, 
and  see  whether  you  may  not  come  upon  something 
which  keeps  you  from  giving  full  and  honest  attention  to 
what  some  people,  as  honest  as  yourself,  think  they  see 
true.  I  am  speaking  only  from  my  knowledge  of  myself, 
and  the  conviction  that  we  are  all  much  alike.  What  if 
you  should  discover  that  you  do  not  really  and  absolutely 
disbelieve  in  a  God } — that  the  human  nature  is  not 
capable  of  such  a  disbelief? — that  your  unbelief  has  been 
only  indifference  and  irreverence — and  that  to  a  being 
grander  and  nobler  and  fairer  than  human  heart  can 
conceive  ?" 

"  If  it  be  so,  let  him  punish  me,"  said  the  doctor 
gra\-ely. 

"  If  it  be  so,  he  will,"  said  the  curate  solemnly,  "  — and 
you  will  thank  him  for  it — after  a  while.  The  God  of 
my  belief  is  too  good  not  to  make  himself  known  to  a 
man  who  loves  what  is  fair  and  honest,  as  you  do." 

The  doctor  Avas  silent. 


144  PAUL  FABER. 

While  they  were  talking  thus,  two  ladies  had  left  the 
others  and  now  approached  them — Mrs.  Wingfold  and 
Miss  Meredith.  They  had  heard  the  last  few  sentences, 
and  seeing  two  clergymen  against  one  infidel,  hastened 
with  the  generosity  of  women  torenderhim  what  aid  they 
might. 

"  I  am  sure  Mr.  Faber  is  honest,"  said  Helen. 

"  That  is  much  to  say  for  any  man,"  returned  the 
curate. 

"  If  any  man  is,  then,"  adjected  JuUet. 

"  That  is  a  great  If,"  rejoined  Wingfold.  "  —  Are  you 
honest,  Helen  ?"  he  added,  turning  to  his  wife. 

"  No,"  she  answered ;  "  but  I  am  honester  than  I  was 
a  year  ago." 

"So  am  I,"  said  her  husband;  "and  I  hope  to  be 
honester  yet  before  another  is  over.  It's  a  big  thing  to 
say,  /  am  honest ^ 

Juliet  was  silent,  and  Helen,  who  was  much  interested 
with  her,  turned  to  see  how  she  was  taking  it.  Her 
lips  were  as  white  as  her  face.  Helen  attributed  the 
change  to  anger,  and  was  silent  also.  The  same  moment 
the  rector  moved  towards  the  place  where  the  luncheon- 
tables  were,  and  they  all  accompanied  him,  Helen  still 
wallang,  in  a  little  anxiety,  by  Juliet's  side.  It  was 
some  minutes  before  the  colour  came  back  to  her  lips ; 
but  when  Helen  next  addressed  her,  she  answered  as 
gently  and  sweetly  as  if  the  silence  had  been  nothing 
but  an  ordinary  one. 

"You  will  stay  and  lunch  with  us,  Mr.  Faber?"  said 
the  rector.     "  There  can  be  no  hypocrisy  in  that — eh?" 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  the  doctor  heartily ;  "  but  my 
work  is  waiting  me,  and  we  all  agree  that  must  be 
done,  whatever  our  opinions  as  to  the  ground  of  the 
obligation." 

"And  no  man  can  say  you  don't  do  it,"  rejoined  tha 
curate  kindly.  "  That's  one  tiling  Ave  do  agree  in,  as 
you  say  :  let  us  hold  by  it,  Faber,  and  keep  as  good 
friends  as  we  can,  till  we  grow  better  ones." 


THE  PARK  A  T  NESTLE  V.  145 

Faber  could  not  quite  match  the  curate  in  plain- 
speaking  :  the  pupil  was  not  up  with  his  master  yet. 

"Thank  you,  Wingfold,"  he  returned,  and  his  voice 
was  not  free  of  emotion,  though  Juliet  alone  felt  the 
tremble  of  the  one  vibrating  thread  in  it.  " — Miss 
Meredith,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  her,  "  I  have  heard  of 
something  that  perhaps  may  suit  you  :  will  you  allow  me 
to  call  in  the  evening,  and  talk  it  over  with  you  ?" 

"  Please  do,"  responded  Juliet  eagerly.  "  Come 
before  post-time  if  you  can.  It  may  be  necessary  to 
write." 

"  I  will. — Good  morning." 

He  made  a  general  bow  to  the  company  and  walked 
away,  cutting  oft  the  heads  of  the  dandelions  with  his 
whip  as  he  went.  All  followed  with  their  eyes  his  firm, 
graceful  figure,  as  he  strode  over  the  grass  in  his  riding- 
boots  and  spurs. 

"  He's  a  fine  fellow  that !"  said  the  rector.  "  — But, 
bless  me  !"  he  added,  turning  to  his  curate,  "  how  things 
change  !  If  you  had  told  me  a  year  ago,  the  day  would 
come  when  I  should  call  an  atheist  a  fine  fellow, 
I  should  almost  have  thought  you  must  be  one 
yourself!  Yet  here  I  am  saying  it — and  never  in  my  life 
so  much  in  earnest  to  be  a  Christian  !  How  is  it,  Wing- 
fold,  my  boy  ?" 

"  He  who  has  the  spirit  of  his  master,  will  speak  the 
truth  even  of  his  master's  enemies,"  answered  the  curate. 
"  To  this  he  is  driven  if  he  does  not  go  willingly,  for  he 
knows  his  master  loves  his  enemies.  If  you  see  Faber  a 
fine  fellow,  you  say  so,  just  as  the  Lord  would,  and  try 
the  more  to  save  him.  A  man  who  loves  and  serves  his 
neighbour,  let  him  speak  ever  so  many  words  against  the 
Son  of  Man,  is  not  sinning  against  the  Holy  Ghost.  He 
is  still  open  to  the  sacred  influence — the  virtue  which  is 
ever  going  forth  from  God  to  heal.  It  is  the  man  who 
in  the  name  of  religion  opposes  that  which  he  sees  to  be 
good,  who  is  in  danger  of  eternal  sin." 
L 


146  PAUL  FABER. 

"  Come,  come,  Wingfold  !  whatever  you  do,  don't  mis- 
quote," said  the  rector. 

''  I  don't  say  it  is  the  right  reading,"  returned  the 
curate,  "  but  I  can  hardly  be  convicted  of  misquoting,  so 
long  as  it  is  that  of  the  two  oldest  manuscripts  we  have." 

"You  always  have  the  better  of  me,"  answered  the 
rector.  "  But  tell  me — are  not  the  atheists  of  the  present 
day  a  better  sort  of  fellows  than  those  we  used  to  hear  of 
wlien  we  were  young  ?" 

"  I  do  think  so.  But,  as  one  who  believes  with  his 
whole  soul,  and  striv^es  with  his  whole  will,  I  attribute 
their  betterness  to  the  growing  influences  of  God  upon 
the  race  through  them  that  have  believed.  And  I  am 
certain  of  this,  that,  whatever  they  are,  it  needs  but  time 
and  continued  unbelief  to  bring  them  down  to  any  level 
from  whatever  height.  They  will  either  repent,  or  fall 
back  into  the  worst  things,  believing  no  more  in  their 
fellowman  and  the  duty  they  owe  him — of  which  they  now 
rightly  make  so  much,  and  yet  not  half  enough — than 
they  do  in  God  and  his  Christ.  But  I  do  not  believe 
half  the  bad  things  Christians  have  said  and  written  of 
atheists.  Indeed  I  do  not  believe  the  greater  number  of 
those  they  have  called  such,  were  atheists  at  all.  I  sus- 
pect that  worse  dishonesty,  and  greater  injustice,  are  to 
be  found  among  the  champions,  lay  and  cleric,  of  reli- 
gious opinion,  than  in  any  other  class.  If  God  were  such 
a  one  as  many  of  those  who  would  fancy  themselves  his 
apostles,  the  universe  would  be  but  a  huge  hell.  Look 
at  certain  of  the  so-called  religious  newspapers,  for  in- 
stance. Religious  !  Their  tongue  is  set  on  fire  of  hell. 
It  may  be  said  that  Ihey  are  mere  money-speculations; 
but  what  makes  them  pay  ?  Who  buys  them  ?  To  please 
whom  do  they  write  }  Do  not  many  buy  them  who  are 
now  and  then  themselves  disgusted  with  them  ?  Why  do 
they  not  refuse  to  touch  the  unclean  things  ?  Instead  of 
keeping  the  commandment,  '  that  he  who  loveth  God 
love  his  brother  also,'  these,  the  prime  channels  of  Satanic 
influence  in  the  church,  powerfully  teach,  that  he  that 


THE  PARK  AT  NES TLE V.  147 

loveth  God   must   abuse    his    brotlier — or   he   shall  be 
hmiself  abused."' 

"  I  fancy,"  said  the  rector,  "  they  would  withhold  tlie 
name  of  brother  from  those  they  abuse." 

"  No  ;  not  always." 

"  They  would  from  an  unbeliever." 

"Yes.  But  let  them  then  call  him  an  enemy,  and 
behave  to  him  as  such— that  is,  love  him,  or  at  least  try 
to  give  him  the  fair  play  to  which  the  most  wicked  of 
devils  has  the  same  right  as  the  holiest  of  saints.  _  It  is 
the  vile  falsehood  and 'miserable  unreality  of  Christians, 
their  faithlessness  to  their  master,  their  love  of  their  own 
wretched  sects,  their  worldliness  and  unchristianity,  their 
talking  and  not  doing,  that  has  to  answer,  I  suspect,  for 
the  greater  portii)n  of  our  present  atheism." 

"  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  Mr.  Faber_  of  late," 
Juliet  said,  with  a  slight  tremor  in  her  voice,  "and 
he  seems  to  me  incapable  of  falling  into  those  vile  condi- 
tions I  used  to  hear  attributed  to  atheists." 

"  The  atheism  of  some  men,"  said  the  curate,  "  is  a 
nobler  thing  than  the  Christianity  of  some  of  the  foremost 
of  so-called  and  so-believed  Christians,  and  I  may  not 
doubt  they  will  fare  better  at  the  last." 

The  rector  looked  a  litde  blank  at  this,  but  said 
nothing.  He  had  so  often  found,  upon  reflection,  that 
what  seemed  extravagance  in  his  curate  was  yet  the  spirit 
of  Scripture,  that  he  had  learned  to  suspend  judgment. 

Miss  Meredith's  face  glowed  with  the  pleasure  ot 
hearing  justice  rendered  the  man  in  whom  she  was  so 
much  mterested,  and  she  looked  the  more  beautiful. 
She  went  soon  after  luncheon  was  over,  leaving  a  favour- 
able impression  behind  her.  Some  of  the  ladies  said  she 
tvas  much  too  fond  of  the  doctor ;  but  the  gentlemen 
admired  her  spirit  in  standing  up  for  him.  Some 
objected  to  her  paleness  ;  others  said  it  was  not  paleness, 
but  fairness ;  others  again,  that  it  certainly  was  not  fair- 
ness, for  her  eyes  and  hair  were  dark  as  the  night ;  but  all 
agreed  that,  whatever  it  was  to  be  called,  her  complexion 

L    2 


148  PAUL  FABER. 

was  peculiar — some  for  that  very  reason  judging  k  the 
more  admirable,  and  others  the  contrary.  Some  said  she 
was  too  stately,  and  attributed  her  carriage  to  a  pride  to 
which,  in  her  position,  she  had  no  right,  they  said. 
Others  judged  that  she  needed  such  a  bearing  the  more 
for  self-defence,  especially  if  she  had  come  down  in  the 
world.  Her  dress,  it  was  generally  allowed,  was  a  little 
too  severe — some  thought,  in  its  defiance  of  the  fashion, 
assuming.  No  one  disputed  that  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  good  society,  and  none  could  say  that  she  had 
made  the  slightest  intrusive  movement  towards  their  circle. 
Still,  why  was  it  that  nobody  knew  anything  about  her  ? 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


THE    RECTORY. 


2^^  HE  curate  and  his  Avife  had  a  good  deal  of 
f^^  talk  about  Juliet  as  they  drove  liomc  from 
llCC?  Nestley.  Much  pleased  with  herself,  dicy 
heard  from  their  hostess  what  she  had 
learned  of  her  history,  and  were  the  more 
interested.  They  must  find  her  a  situa- 
tion, they  agreed,  where  she  would  feel  at  home;  and 
in  the  meantime  would  let  her  understand  that,  if  slie 
took  up  her  abode  in  Glaston,  and  were  so  inclined, 
the  town  was  large  enough  to  give  a  good  hope  of  her 
finding  a  few  daily  engagements. 

Before  they  left  Nestley,  Helen  had  said  to  Mrs.  Bevis 
that  she  would  like  to  ask  Miss  Meredith  to  visit  them 
for  a  few  days. 

"  No  one  knows  much  about  her,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Bevis,  feehng  responsible. 

"She  can't  be  poison,"  returned  Helen.  "And  if  she 
were,  she  couldn't  hurt  us.  That's  the  good  of  being 
husband  and  wife  :  so  long  as  you  are  of  one  mind,  you 
can  do  almost  anything." 

When  Faber  called  upon  Juliet  in  tiie  evening,  nothing 
passed  between  them  concerning  the  situation  at  which 
he  had  hinted.  When  he  entered,  she  was  seated  as 
usual  in  the  corner  of  the  dingy  little  couch,  under  the 


ISO  PAUL  FABER. 

small  window  looking  into  the  garden,  in  the  shadow. 
She  did  not  rise,  but  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He 
went  hastily  up  to  her,  took  the  hand  she  oftered,  sat 
down  beside  her,  and  at  once  broke  into  a  full  declara- 
tion of  his  love — now  voluble,  now  hesitating,  now  sub- 
missive, now  persuasive,  but  humblest  when  most 
passionate.  Whatever  the  man's  conceit,  or  his  estimate 
of  the  thing  he  would  have  her  accept,  it  was  in  all 
honesty  and  modesty  that  he  offered  her  the  surrender  of 
the  very  citadel  of  his  being — alas,  too  "  empty,  swept,  and 
garnished  !"  Juliet  kept  her  head  turned  from  him  ;  he 
felt  the  hand  he  held  tremble,  and  every  now  and  then 
make  a  faint  struggle  to  escape  from  his ;  but  he  could 
not  see  that  her  emotion  was  such  as  hardly  to  be 
accounted  for  either  by  pleasure  at  the  hearing  of 
welcome  words,  or  sorrow  that  her  reply  must  cause 
]xain.  He  ceased  at  length,  and  with  eyes  of  longing 
sought  a  glimpse  of  her  face^  and  caught  one.  Its 
wild,  waste  expression  frightened  him.  It  was  pallid 
like  an  old  sunset,  and  her  breath  came  and  went 
stormily.  Three  times,  in  a  growing  agony  of  effort,  her 
Hps  failed  of  speech.  She  gave  a  sudden  despairing  cast 
of  her  head  sideways,  her  mouth  opened  a  little  as  if 
Avith  mere  helplessness,  she  threw  a  pitiful  glance  in  his 
face,  burst  into  a  tumult  of  sobs,  and  fell  back  on  the 
couch.  Not  a  tear  came  to  her  eyes,  but  such  was  her 
trouble  that  she  did  not  even  care  to  lift  her  hand  to 
her  face  to  hide  the  movements  of  its  rebellious  muscles. 
Faber,  bewildered,  but,  from  the  habits  of  his  profession, 
master  of  himself,  instantly  prepared  her  something, 
which  she  took  obediently  ;  and  as  soon  as  she  was 
quieted  a  little,  mounted  and  rode  away  :  two  things  were 
clear — -one,  that  she  could  not  be  indifferent  to  him  ;  the 
other,  that,  whatever  the  cause  of  her  emotion,  she  would 
for  the  present  be  better  without  him.  He  was  both  too 
kind  and  too  proud  to  persist  in  presenting  himself 

The  next  morning  Helen  drew  up  her  ponies  at  Mrs. 
Tuckridge's    door,    and   Wingfold    got    out   and    stood 


THE  RECTORY.  151 

by  their  lieads,  while  she  went  in  to  call  on  Miss 
Meredith. 

Juliet  had  passed  a  sleepless  night,  and  gi'catly  dreaded 
the  next  interview  with  Faber.  Helen's  invitation,  there- 
fore, to  pay  them  a  few  days'  visit,  came  to  her  like  a 
redemption  :  in  their  house  she  would  have  protection 
both  from  Faber  and  from  herself.  Heartily,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  she  accepted  it;  and  her  cordial  and  grateful 
readiness  placed  her  yet  a  step  higher  in  the  regard  of 
her  new  friends.  The  acceptance  of  a  favour  may  be  the 
conferring  of  a  greater.  Quickly,  hurriedly,  she  put  up 
"  her  bag  of  needments,"  and  with  a  sad,  sweet  smile  ot 
gende  apology,  took  the  curate's  place  beside  his  wife, 
while  he  got  into  the  seat  behind. 

Juliet,  having  of  late  been  so  much  confined  to  the 
house,  could  not  keep  back  the  tears  called  forth  by 
the  pleasure  of  the  rapid  motion  through  the  air,  the 
constant  change  of  scene,  and  that  sense  of  human  story 
which  haunts  the  mind  in  passing  unknown  houses  and 
farms  and  villages.  An  old  thatched  barn  works  as 
directly  on  the  social  feeling  as  the  ancient  castle  or 
venerable  manor-seat ;  many  a  simple  house  will  move 
one's  heart  like  a  poem ;  many  a  cottage  like  a  melody. 
When  at  last  she  caught  sight  of  the  great  church-tower, 
she  clapped  her  hands  with  delight.  There  was  a  place 
in  which  to  wander  and  hide  !  she  thought — in  which  to 
find  refuge  and  rest,  and  coolness  and  shadow !  Even 
for  Fabcr's  own  sake  she  would  not  believe  that  faith 
a  mere  folly  which  had  built  such  a  pile  as  that  !  Surely 
there  was  some  way  of  meeting  the  terrible  things  he  said 
— if  only  she  could  find  it ! 

"Are  you  fastidious,  Miss  ]\Ieredith,  or  wiUing  to  do 
anything  that  is  honest  ?"  the  curate  asked  rather  abruptly, 
leaning  forward  from  the  back  seat. 

"  If  ever  I  was  fastidious,"  she  answered,  "  I  think  I 
am  pretty  nearly  cured.  I  certainly  should  like  my  work 
to  be  so  far  within  my  capacity  as  to  be  pleasant  to  me." 

"Then  there  is  no  fear,"  answered  the  curate.     "The 


152  PAUL  FABER. 

people  who  don't  get  on.  are  those  that  pick  and  choose 
upon  false  principles.  They  generally  attempt  what  they 
are  unfit  for,  and  deserve  their  fiiilures. — Are  you  willing 
to  teach  little  puds  and  little  tongues  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  are  able  to  do  ?" 

"I  would  rather  not.  You  might  think  differently 
when  you  came  to  know  me.  But  you  can  ask  me  any 
(questions  you  please.  I  shan't  hide  my  knowledge,  and 
I  can't  hide  my  ignorance." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  curate,  and  leaned  back  again 
in  his  seat. 

After  luncheon,  Helen  found  to  her  delight  that, 
although  Juliet  was  deficient  enough  in  the  mechanics 
belonging  to  both  voice  and  instrument,  she  could  yet 
sing  and  play  with  expression  and  facility,  while  her  voice 
was  one  of  the  loveliest  she  had  ever  heard.  When  the 
curate  came  home  from  his  afternoon  attentions  to  the 
ailing  of  his  flock,  he  was  delighted  to  hear  his  wife's 
report  of  her  gifts. 

"  Would  you  mind  reading  a  page  or  two  aloud  ?"  he 
said  to  their  visitor,  after  they  had  had  a  cup  of  tea.  "  I 
often  get  my  wife  to  read  to  me." 

She  consented  at  once.  He  put  a  volume  of  Carlyle 
into  her  hand.  She  had  never  even  tasted  a  book  of  his 
before,  yet  presently  caught  the  spirit  of  the  passage,  and 
read  charmingly. 

In  the  course  of  a  day  or  two  they  discovered  that  she 
was  sadly  defective  in  spelling,  a  paltry  poverty  no  doubt, 
yet  awkward  for  one  who  would  teach  children.  In 
grammar  and  arithmetic  also  the  curate  found  her  lacking. 
Going  from  place  to  place  with  her  father,  she  had  never 
been  much  at  school,  she  said,  and  no  one  had  ever  com- 
pelled her  to  attend  to  the  dry  things.  But  nothing 
could  be  more  satisfactory  than  the  way  in  which  she 
now,  with  the  help  of  the  curate  and  his  wife,  set  herself 
to  learn  ;  and  until  she  sliould  have  gained  such  profi- 


THE  RECTORY.  153 

ciency  as  would  enable  them  to  speak  of  her  acquirements 
with  confidence,  they  persuaded  her,  with  no  great  difti- 
culty,  to  continue  their  guest.  Wingfold,  who  had  been  a 
tutor  in  his  day,  was  well  qualified  to  assist  her,  and  she 
learned  with  wonderful  rapidity. 

The  point  that  most  perplexed  Wingfold  with  her,  was, 
that,  while  very  capable  of  perceiving  and  admiring  the 
good,  she  was  yet  capable  of  admiring  things  of  altogether 
inferior  quality.  What  did  it  mean  ?  Could  it  arise  from 
an  excess  of  productive  faculty,  not  yet  sufficiently 
difterenced  from  the  receptive?  One  could  imagine 
such  an  excess  ready  to  seize  the  poorest  moulds,  How 
into  them,  and  endow  them  for  itself  with  attributed 
life  and  power.  He  found  also  that  she  was  familiar 
with  the  modes  of  thought  and  expression  peculiar 
to  a  certain  school  of  theology — embodiments  from 
which,  having  done  their  good,  and  long  commenced 
doing  their  evil,  Truth  had  begun  to  withdraw  itself, 
consuming  as  it  withdrew.  For  the  moment  the  fire 
ceases  to  be  the  life  of  the  bush  in  which  it  appears, 
the  bush  will  begin  to  be  consumed.  At  the  same 
time  he  could  perfectly  recognize  the  influence  of  Faber 
upon  her.  For  not  unfrequently,  the  talk  between  the 
curate  and  his  wife  would  turn  upon  some  point  con- 
nected with  the  unbelief  of  the  land,  so  much  more  active, 
though  but  seemingly  more  extensive  than  heretofore ; 
when  she  would  now  make  a  remark,  now  ask  a  question, 
in  which  the  curate  heard  the  doctor  as  plainly  as  if  the 
words  had  come  direct  from  his  lips  :  those  who  did  not 
believe  might  answer  so  and  so — might  refuse  the 
evidence — might  explain  the  thing  differently.  But  she 
listened  well,  and  seemed  to  understand  what  they  said. 
The  best  of  her  undoubtedly  appeared  in  her  music,  in 
which  she  was  fundamentally  far  superior  to  Helen,  though 
by  no  means  so  well  trained,  taught,  or  practised  in  it ; 
whence  Helen  had  the  unspeakable  delight,  one  which 
only  a  humble,  large,  and  lofty  mind  can  ever  have,  of 


1 54  PAUL  FABER. 

consciously  ministering  to  the  growth  of  another  in  the 
very  thing  wherein  that  other  is  naturally  the  superior. 
The  way  to  the  blessedness  that  is  in  music,  as  to  all 
other  blessednesses,  lies  through. weary  labours,  and  the 
master  must  suffer  with  the  disciple :  Helen  took  Juliet 
like  a  child,  set  her  to  scales  and  exercises,  and  made  he 
practise  hours  a  day. 


CHAPTER    XX. 


AT    THE    PIANO. 


I:^15.^^^HEN  Faber  called  on  Juliet,  the  morning 
after  the  last  interview  recorded,  and  found 
where  she  was  gone,  he  did  not  doubt  she 
had  taken  refuge  with  her  nev/  friends  from 
his  importunity,  and  was  at  once  confirmed 
in  the  idea  lie  had  cherished  through 
the  whole  wakeful  night,  that  the  cause  of  her  agita- 
tion was  nothing  else  than  the  conflict  between  her 
heart  and  a  false  sense  of  duty,  born  of  prejudice  and 
superstition.  She  was  not  willing  to  send  him  away,  and 
yet  she  dared  not  accept  him.  Her  behaviour  had  certainly 
revealed  anything  but  indifference,  and  therefore  must  not 
make  him  miserable.  At  the  same  time,  if  it  was  her 
pleasure  to  avoid  him,  what  chance  liad  he  of  seeing  her 
alone  at  the  rectory?  The  thought  made  him  so  savage 
that  for  a  moment  he  almost  imagined  his  friend  had  been 
playing  him  false. 

"  I  suppose  he  thinks  everything  fair  in  religion,  as  well 
as  in  love  and  war  !"  he  said  to  himself.  "  It's  a  mighty 
stake,  no  doubt — a  soul  like  Juliet's  !" 

He  laughed  scornfully.  It  was  but  a  momentary 
yielding  to  the  temptation  of  injustice,  however,  for  his 
conscience  told  him  at  once  that  the  curate  was  incapable 
of  anything  either  overbearing  or  underhand.     He  would 


1S6  PAUL  FABER. 

call  on  her  as  his  patient,  and  satisfy  himself  at  once 
how  things  were  between  them.  At  best  they  had  taken 
a  bad  turn. 

He  judged  it  better,  however,  to  let  a  day  or  two  pass. 
When  he  did  call,  he  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room, 
where  he  found  Helen  at  the  piano,  and  Juliet  having  a 
singing-lesson  from  her.  Till  then  he  had  never  lieard 
Juhet's  song  voice.  A  few  notes  of  it  dimly  reached  him 
as  he  approached  the  room,  and  perhaps  prepared  him 
for  the  impression  he  was  about  to  receive  :  when  the 
door  opened,  like  a  wind  on  a  more  mobile  sea,  it  raised 
sudden  tumult  in  his  soul.  Not  once  in  his  life  had  he 
ever  been  agitated  in  such  fashion ;  he  knew  himself  a? 
he  had  never  known  himself  It  was  as  if  some  potent 
element,  undreamed  of  before,  came  rushing  into  the 
ordered  sphere  of  his  world,  and  shouldered  its  elements 
from  the  rhythm  of  their  going.  It  was  a  full  contralto, 
with  pathos  in  the  very  heart  of  it,  and  it  seemed  to  wrap 
itself  round  his  heart  like  a  serpent  of  saddest  splendour, 
•and  press  the  blood  from  it  up  into  his  eyes.  The  ladies 
were  too  much  occupied  to  hear  him  announced,  or  note 
his  entrance,  and  he  stood  by  the  door,  absorbed, 
entranced. 

Presently  he  began  to  feel  annoyed,  and  proceeded 
thereupon  to  take  precautions  with  himself.  For  Juliet  was 
having  a  lesson  of  the  severest  kind,  in  which  she  accepted 
every  lightest  hint  with  the  most  heedful  attention,  and 
conformed  thereto  with  the  sweetest  obedience  3  whence  it 
came  that  Faber,  the  next  moment  after  fancying  he  had 
screwed  his  temper  to  stoic  pitch,  found  himself  passing 
from  displeasure  to  indignation,  and  thence  almost  to 
fury,  as  again  and  again  some  exquisite  tone,  that  went 
thrilling  through  all  his  being,  discovering  to  him  depths 
and  recesses  hitherto  unimagined,  was  unceremoniously,  or 
witli  briefest  apology,  cut  short  for  the  sake  of  some 
suggestion  from  Helen.  Wliether  such  suggestion  was 
right  or  wrong,  was  to  Faber  not  of  the  smallest  conse- 
quence :  it  was  in  itself  a  sacrilege,  a  breaking  into  the 


AT  THE  PIANO.  157 

house  of  life,  a  causing  of  that  to  cease  whose  very  being 
was  its  justification.  Mrs.  Wingfold  !  she  was  not  fit  to 
sing  in  the  same  chorus  with  her  !  Juhet  was  altogether 
out  of  sight  of  her  !  He  had  heard  Mrs.  Wingfold  sing 
many  a  time,  and  she  could  no  more  biing  out  a  note 
hke  one  of  those  she  was  daring  to  criticize,  than  a  cat 
could  emulate  a  thrush  ! 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Faber  ! — I  did  not  know  you  were  there," 
said  Helen  at  length,  and  rose.  "  We  were  so  busy  we 
never  heard  you." 

If  she  had  looked  at  Juliet,  she  would  have  said  / 
instead  of  we.  Her  kind  manner  brought  Faber  to  him- 
self a  little. 

"  Pray,  do  not  apologize,"  he  said.  "  I  could  have 
listened  for  ever." 

"  I  don't  wonder.  It  is  not  often  one  hears  notes  like 
those.  Were  you  aware  what  a  voice  you  had  saved  to 
the  world  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  Miss  Meredith  leaves  her  gifts  to 
be  discovered." 

"  All  good  things  wait  the  seeker,"  said  Helen,  who 
had  taken  to  preaching  since  she  married  the  curate, 
some  of  her  half-friends  said ;  the  fact  being  that  life  had 
grown  to  her  so  gracious,  so  happy,  so  serious,  that  she 
would  not  unfrequently  say  a  thing  worth  saying. 

In  the  interstices  of  this  little  talk,  Juliet  and  Faber 
had  shaken  hands,  and  murmured  a  conventional  word 
or  two. 

"I  suppose  this  is  a  professional  visit?"  said  Helen. 
"  Shall  I  leave  you  with  your  patient  ?" 

As  she  put  the  question,  however,  she  turned  to 
Juliet. 

"  There  is  not  the  least  occasion,"  Juliet  replied,  a 
little  eagerly,  and  with  a  rather  wan  smile.  "  I  am  quite 
well,  and  have  dismissed  my  doctor." 

Faber  was  in  the  mood  to  imagine  more  than  met  the 
ear,  and  the  words  seemed  to  him  of  cruel  significance. 
A  flush  of  anger  rose  to  his  forehead,  and  battled  with 


IS8  PAUL  FABER. 

the  paleness  of  chagrin.  He  said  nothing.  But  Juliet 
saw  and  understood.  Instantly  she  held  out  her 
hand  to  him  again,  and  supplemented  the  offending 
speech  with  the  words, 

"  — but,  I  hope,  retained  my  friend  ?" 

The  light  rushed  again  into  Faber's  eyes,  and  Juliet 
repented  afresh,  for  the  words  had  wrought  too  far  in  the 
other  direction, 

"That  is,"  she  amended,  "if  Mr.  Faber  will  conde- 
scend to  friendship,  after  having  played  the  tyrant  so 
long." 

"  I  can  only  aspire  to  it,"  said  the  doctor. 

It  sounded  mere  common  compliment,  the  silliest 
thing  between  man  and  woman,  and  Mrs.  Wingfold 
divined  nothing  more  :  she  was  not  quick  in  such  mat- 
ters. Had  she  suspected,  she  might,  not  knowing  the 
rnind  of  the  lady,  have  been  a  little  perplexed.  As  it 
was,  she  did  not  leave  the  room,  and  presently  the  curate 
entered,  with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand. 

"  They're  still  at  it,  Faber,"  he  said,  "  with  their  heated 
liquids  and  animal  life  !" 

"  I  need  not  ask  which  side  you  take,"  said  the  doctor, 
not  much  inclined  to  enter  upon  any  discussion. 

"  1  take  neither,"  answered  the  curate.  "  Where  is  the 
use,  or  indeed  possibility,  so  long  as  the  men  of  science 
themselves  are  disputing  about  the  facts  of  experiment  ? 
It  will  be  time  enough  to  try  to  understand  them,  when 
they  are  agreed  and  we  know  what  the  facts  really  are. 
Whatever  they  may  turn  out  to  be,  it  is  but  a  truism  to 
say  they  must  be  consistent  with  all  other  truth,  although 
they  may  entirely  upset  some  of  our  notions  of  it." 

"  To  which  side  then  do  you  lean,  as  to  the  weiglit  of 
the  evidence  ?"  asked  Faber,  rather  listlessly. 

He  had  been  making  some  experiments  of  his  own  in 
the  direction  referred* to.  They  were  not  so  complete  as 
he  would  have  liked,  for  he  found  a  large  country  practice 
unfriendly  to  investigation  ;  but,  such  as  they  were,  tliey 


A  T  THE  PIANO.  1 59 

favoured  the  conclusion  tliat  no  form  of  life  appeared 
where  protection  from  the  air  was  thorough. 

"  I  take  the  evidence/'  answered  the  curate,  "  to  be 
in  favour  of  what  they  so  absurdly  call  spontaneous 
generation." 

"  I  am  surprised  to  hear  you  say  so,"  returned  Faber. 
"  The  conclusions  necessary  thereupon,  are  opposed  to 
all  your  theology." 

"  Must  I  then,  because  1  believe  in  a  living  Truth,  be 
myself  an  unjust  judge  ?"  said  the  curate.  "  But  indeed 
the  conclusions  are  opposed  to  no  theology  I  have  any 
acquaintance  with ;  and  if  they  were,  it  would  give  me 
no  concern.  Theology  is  not  my  origin,  but  God.  Nor 
do  1  acknowledge  any  theology  but  what  Christ  has 
taught,  and  has  to  teach  me.  When,  and  under  what 
circumstances,  life  comes  first  into  human  ken,  cannot 
affect  his  lessons  of  trust  and  fairness.  If  I  were  to 
play  tricks  with  the  truth,  shirk  an  argument,  refuse  to 
look  a  fact  in  the  face,  I  should  be  ashamed  to  look 
him  in  the  face.  What  he  requires  of  his  friends  is  pure, 
open-eyed  truth." 

"  But  how,"  said  the  doctor,  "  can  you  grant  sponta- 
neous generation,  and  believe  in  a  creator?" 

"I  said  the  term  was  an  absurd  one,"  rejoined  the 
curate. 

"  Never  mind  the  term  then  :  you  admit  the  fact  ?" 
said  Faber. 

"  What  fact  ?"  asked  W^ingfold. 

"  That  in  a  certain  liquid,  where  all  life  has  been  de- 
stroyed, and  where  no  contact  with  life  is  admitted,  life  of 
itself  appears,"  defined  the  doctor. 

"  No,  no  ;  I  admit  nothing  of  the  sort,"  cried  W'ing- 
fold.  "  I  only  admit  that  the  evidence  seems  in  favour 
of  believing  that  in  some  liquids  that  have  been  heated 
to  a  high  point,  and  kept  from  the  air,  life  has  yet  ap- 
peared. How  can  I  tell  whether  all  life  already  there 
was  first  destroyed?  whether  a  yet  higher  temperature 


i6o  PAUL  FABER. 

would  not  have  flestroyed  yet  more  life  ?  What  if  the  heat, 
presumed  to  destroy  all  known  germs  of  Hfe  in  them,  should 
be  the  means  of  developing  other  germs,  farther  re- 
moved ?  Then  as  to  spontaneity^  as  to  life  appearing  of 
itself,  that  question  involves  something  beyond  physics. 
Absolute  life  can  exist  only  of  and  by  itself,  else  were  it 
no  perfect  thing ;  but  will  you  say  that  a  mass  of  proto- 
plasm— that  proto  by  the  way  is  a  begged  question — 
exists  by  its  own  power,  appears  by  its  own  will  ?  Is  it 
not  rather  there  because  it  cannot  help  it  ?" 

"  It  is  there  in  virtue  of  the  life  that  is  in  it,"  said 
Faber. 

"  Of  course  ;  that  is  a  mere  truism,"  returned  Wing- 
fold,  "  equivalent  to.  It  lives  in  virtue  of  life.  There  is 
nothing  spontaneous  in  that.  Its  life  must  in  some  way 
spring  from  the  true,  the  original,  the  self-existent  life." 

'•  There  you  are  begging  the  whole  question,"  objected 
the  doctor. 

"No;  not  the  whole,"  persisted  the  curate;  "for  I 
fancy  you  will  yourself  admit  there  is  some  blind  driving 
law  behind  the  phenomenon.  But  now  I  will  beg  the 
whole  question,  if  you  like  to  say  so,  for  the  sake  of  a 
bit  of  purely  metaphysical  argument :  the  law  of  life 
behind,  if  it  be  spontaneously  existent,  cannot  be  a  blind, 
deaf,  unconscious  law  ;  if  it  be  unconscious  of  itself,  it 
cannot  be  spontaneous ;  whatever  is  of  itself  must  be 
God,  and  the  source  of  all  non-spontaneous,  that  is,  all 
other  existence." 

"  Then  it  has  been  only  a  dispute  about  a  word?"  said 
Faber. 

"  Yes,  but  a  word  involving  a  tremendous  question," 
answered  Wingfold. 

"  Which  I  give  up  altogether,"  said  the  doctor,  "  assert- 
ing that  there  is  nothing  spontaneous,  in  the  sense  you 
give  the  word — the  original  sense  I  admit.  From  all 
eternity  a  blind,  unconscious  law  has  been  at  work, 
producing." 

"I  say,  an  awful  living  Love  and  Truth  and  Right, 


AT  THE  PIANO.  i6i 

creating  children  of  its  own,"  said  the  curate — "  and 
there  is  our  difference." 

*'  Yes,"  assented  Faber. 

"  Anyhow,  then,"  said  Wingfold,  "  so  far  as  regards 
the  matter  in  hand,  all  we  can  say  is,  that  under  such  and 
such  circumstances  life  appears— wJicnce,  we  believe  dif- 
ferently ;  how,  neither  of  us  can  tell — perhaps  will  ever 
be  able  to  tell.  I  can't  talk  in  scientific  phrase  like  you, 
Faber,  but  truth  is  not  tied  to  any  form  of  words." 

"It  is  well  disputed,"  said  the  doctor,  "and  I  am 
inclined  to  grant  that  the  question  with  which  we  started 
does  not  immediately  concern  the  great  differences  be- 
tween us." 

It  was  rather  hard  upon  Faber  to  have  to  argue  when 
out  of  condition  and  with  a  lady  beside  to  whom  he  was 
longing  to  pour  out  his  soul — his  antagonist  a  man  who 
never  counted  a  sufficing  victory  gained,  unless  his  adver- 
sary had  had  light  and  wind  both  in  his  back.  Trifling 
as  was  the  occasion  of  the  present  skirmish,  he  had  taken 
his  stand  on  the  lower  ground.  Faber  imagined  he  read 
both  triumph  and  pity  in  Juliet's  regard,  and  could 
scarcely  endure  his  position  a  moment  longer. 

"Shall  we  have  some  music?"  said  Wingfold.  " — I 
see  the  piano  open.  Or  are  you  one  of  those  wor- 
shippers of  work,  who  put  music  in  the  morning  in  the 
same  category  with  looking  on  the  wine  when  it  is 
red  ?" 

"Theoretically,  no;  but  practically,  yes,"  answered 
Faber,  " — at  least  for  to-day.  I  shouldn't  like  poor 
Widow  Mullens  to  lie  listening  to  the  sound  of  that  old 
water-wheel,  till  it  took  up  its  parable  against  the  faith- 
lessness of  men  in  general,  and  the  doctor  in  particular. 
I  can't  do  her  much  good,  poor  old  soul,  but  I  can  at 
least  make  her  fancy  herself  of  consequence  enough  not 
to  be  forgotten." 

The  curate  frowned  a  little — thoughtfully — but  said 
nothing,  and  followetl  his  visitor  to  the  door.  When  he 
returned,  he  said, 

M 


1 62  PAUL  FABER. 

"I  wonder  what  it  is  in  that  man  that  won't  let  hira 
believe !" 

"  Perhaps  he  will  yet,  some  day,"  said  Juliet,  softly. 

"  He  will ;  he  must,"  answered  the  curate.  "  He 
always  reminds  me  of  the  young  man  who  had  kept  the 
law,  and  whom  our  Lord  loved.  Surely  he  must  have 
been  one  of  the  first  that  came  and  laid  his  wealth  at 
the  apostles'  feet !  May  not  even  that  half  of  the  law 
which  Faber  tries  to  keep,  be  schoolmaster  enough  to 
lead  him  to  Christ? — But  come,  Miss  Meredith;  now 
for  our  mathematics  !" 

Every  two  or  three  days  the  doctor  called  to  see  his 
late  patient.  She  wanted  looking  after,  he  said.  But 
not  once  did  he  see  her  alone.  He  could  not  tell  from 
their  behaviour  whether  she  or  her  hostess  was  to  blame 
for  his  recurring  disappointment ;  but  the  fact  was,  that 
his  ring  at  the  door-bell  was  the  signal  to  Juliet  not  to 
be  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


THE    PASTORS    STUDY. 


HAPPENING  at  length  to  hear  that  visitors 
were  expected,  Juliet,  notwithstanding  the 
assurances  of  her  hostess  that  there  was 
plenty  of  room  for  her,  insisted  on  finding 
lodgings,  and  taking  more  direct  mea- 
sures for  obtaining  employment.  But  the 
curate  had  not  been  idle  in  her  affairs,  and  had  already 
arranged  for  her  with  some  of  his  own  people  who 
had  small  children,  only  he  had  meant  she  should 
not  begin  just  yet.  He  wanted  her  both  to  be  a  little 
stronger,  and  to  have  got  a  little  farther  with  one  or  two 
of  her  studies.  And  now,  consulting  with  Helen,  he 
broached  a  new  idea  on  the  matter  of  her  lodgment. 

A  day  or  two  before,  Jones,  the  butcher,  had  been 
talking  to  him  about  Mr.  Drake — saying  how  badly  his 
congregation  had  behaved  to  him,  and  in  what  trouble 
he  had  come  to  him,  because  he  could  not  pay  his  bill. 
The  good  fellow  had  all  this  time  never  mentioned  the 
matter ;  and  it  was  from  growing  concern  about  the 
minister  that  he  now  spoke  of  it  to  the  curate. 

"  We  don't  know  all  the  circumstances,  however,  Mr. 
Jones,"  the  curate  replied ;  "  and  perhaps  Mr.  Drake 
himself  does  not  think  so  badly  of  it  as  you  do.  He  is 
a  most  worthy  man.      Mind  you  let  him  have  what- 

M     2 


164  PAUL  FABER. 

ever  he  wants :  I'll  see  to  you.  Don't  mention  it  to  a 
soul." 

"  Bless  your  heart  and  liver,  sir !"  exclaimed  the 
butcher,  "  he's  ten  times  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  do 
a  kindness  to.  I  couldn't  take  no  liberty  with  that  man 
■ — no,  not  if  he  was  'most  dead  of  hunger.  He'd  eat  the 
rats  out  of  his  own  cellar,  I  do  believe,  before  he'd  accept 
what  you  may  call  a  charity ;  and  for  buying  when  he 
knows  he  can't  never  pay,  why  he'd  beg  outright  before 
he'd  do  that.  What  he  do  live  on  now,  I  can't  nohow 
make  out — and  that's  what  doos  make  me  angry  with 
him — as  if  a  honest  tradesman  didn't  know  how  to  behave 
to  a  gentleman  !  AMiy,  they  tell  me,  sir,  he  did  use  to 
drive  his  carriage  and  pair  in  London !  And  now  he's  a 
doin'  of  his  best  to  live  upon  nothink  at  all ! — leastways 
so  they  tell  me — seein'  as  how  he'd  have  'em  believe  he 
was  turned  a — what's  it  they  call  it?— a — a — a  wegeta- 
blarian ! — that's  what  he  do,  sir !  But  I  know  better. 
He  may  be  eatin'  grass  like  a  ox,  as  did  tliat  same  old 
king  o'  Israel  as  growed  the  feathers  and  the  claws  in 
consequennce  ;  and  I  don't  say  he  ain't ;  but  one  thing 
I'm  sure  of,  and  that  is,  that  if  he  be,  it's  by  cause  he  can't 
help  it.  Why,  sir,  I  put  it  to  you — no  gentleman  would, 
if  he  could  help  it. — \Vhy  don't  he  come  to  me  for  a  bit 
o'  wholesome  meat?"  he  went  on,  in  a  sorely  injured 
tone.  "  He  knows  I'm  ready  for  anythink  in  reason  ! 
Them  pease  an'  beans  an'  cabbages  an'  porridges  an' 
carrots  an'  turmits — why,  sir,  they  ain't  nothink  at  all  but 
water  an'  wind.  I  don't  say  as  they  mayn't  keep  a  body 
alive  for  a  year  or  two,  but,  bless  you,  there's  nothink  in 
them ;  and  the  man'll  be  a  skelinton  long  before  he's 
dead  an'  buried ;  an'  I  shed  jest  like  to  know  where's  the 
good  o'  life  on  sich  terms  as  them  !" 

Thus  Jones,  the  butcher — a  man  who  never  sold  bad 
meat,  never  charged  for  an  ounce  more  than  he  delivered, 
and  when  he  sold  to  the  poor,  considered  them.  In 
buying  and  selling  he  had  a  weakness  for  giving  the  fair 
play  he  demanded.     He  had  a  little  spare  money  some- 


THE  PASTOR'S  STUDY.  165 

where,  but  he  did  not  make  a  fortune  out  of  hunger, 
retire  early,  and  build  churches.  A  local  preacher  once 
asked  him  if  he  knew  what  was  the  plan  of  salvation.  He 
answered,  with  the  utmost  innocence,  cutting  him  off  a 
great  lump  of  leg  of  beef  for  a  family  he  had  just  told 
him  was  starving,  that  he  hadn't  an  idea,  but  no  Christian 
could  doubt  it  was  all  right. 

The  curate,  then,  pondering  over  what  Mr.  Jones  had 
told  him,  had  an  idea  \  and  now  he  and  his  wife  were 
speedily  of  one  mind  as  to  attempting  an  arrangement  for 
Juliet  with  Miss  Drake.  What  she  would  be  able  to  pay 
wouldj  they  thought,  case  them  a  little,  while  she  would 
have  the  advantage  of  a  better  protection  than  a  lodging 
with  more  humble  people  would  aftbrd  her.  Juliet  was 
willing  for  anything  they  thought  best. 

Wingfold  therefore  called  on  the  minister,  to  make  the 
proposal  to  him,  and  was  shown  up  to  his  study — a  mere 
box,  where  there  was  just  room  for  a  chair  on  each  side 
of  the  little  writing-table.  The  walls  from  top  to  bottom 
were  entirely  hidden  with  books. 

Mr.  Drake  received  him  with  a  touching  mixture  ot 
sadness  and  cordiality,  and  heard  in  silence  what  he  had 
to  say. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  think  of  us,  Mr.  Wingfold," 
he  replied,  after  a  moment's  pause.  "  But  I  fear  the  thing 
is  impossible.  Indeed,  it  is  out  of  the  question.  Circum- 
stances are  changed  with  us.  Things  are  not  as  they 
once  were." 

There  had  always  been  a  certain  negative  virtue  in  Mr. 
Drake,  which  only  his  friends  were  able  to  see,  and  only 
the  wisest  of  them  to  set  over  against  his  display — this, 
namely,  that  he  never  attempted  to  gain  credit  for  what 
he  knew  he  had  not.  As  he  was  not  above  show,  I  can- 
not say  he  was  safely  above  false  show,  for  he  who  is 
capable  of  the  one  is  still  in  danger  of  the  other  ;  but  he 
was  altogether  above  deception  :  that  he  scorned.  If,  in 
his  time  of  plenty,  he  liked  men  to  be  aware  of  his  worldly 
facilities,  he  now,  in  the  time  of  his  poverty,  preferred 


1 66  PAUL  FABER. 

that  men  should  be  aware  of  the  bonds  in  which  he  lived. 
His  nature  was  simple,  and  loved  to  let  in  the  daylight. 
Concealment  was  altogether  alien  to  him.  From  morning 
to  night  anxious,  he  could  not  bear  to  be  supposed  of 
easy  heart.  Some  men  think  poverty  such  a  shame,  that 
they  will  rather  be  judged  absolutely  mean  than  confess 
it.  ISIr.  Drake's  openness  may  have  sprung  from  too 
great  a  desire  for  sympathy,  or  from  a  diseased  honesty — 
I  cannot  tell  :  I  wall  freely  allow,  that  if  his  faith  had  been 
as  a  grain  of  mustard  seed,  he  would  not  have  been  so 
haunted  with  a  sense  of  his  poverty,  as  to  be  morbidly 
anxious  to  confess  it.  He  would  have  known  that  his 
affairs  were  in  high  charge ;  and  that,  in  the  full  flow  of 
the  fountain  of  prosperity,  as  well  as  in  the  scanty,  gravelly 
driblets  from  the  hard-wrought  pump  of  poverty,  the 
supply  came  all  the  same  from  under  the  throne  of  God, 
and  he  would  not  have/t'//  poor.  A  man  ought  never  to 
feel  rich  for  riches,  nor  poor  for  poverty.  The  perfect 
man  must  always  feel  rich,  because  God  is  rich. 

"  The  fact  is,"'  Mr.  Drake  went  on,  "we  are  very  poor 
— absolutely  poor,  Mr.  Wingfold — so  poor  that  I  may  not 
even  refuse  the  trifling  annuity  my  late  congregation  will 
dole  out  to  me." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  know  it,"  said  the  curate. 

"  But  I  must  take  heed  of  injustice,"  the  pastor  re- 
sumed :  "  I  do  not  think  they  would  have  treated  me  so, 
had  they  not  imagined  me  possessed  of  private  means. 
The  pity  now  is,  that  the  necessity  which  would  make 
me  glad  to  fall  in  with  your  kind  proposal,  itself  renders 
the  thing  impracticable.  Even  w-ith  what  your  friend 
would  contribute  to  the  housekeeping,  we  could  not 
provide  a  table  fit  for  her.  But  Dorothy  ought  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  hearing  your  kind  proposition  :  if  you  will 
allow  me,  I  will  call  her." 

Dorothy  was  in  the  kitchen,  making  pastry — for  the 
rare  treat  of  a  chicken  pudding  :  they  had  had  a  present 
of  a  couple  of  chickens  from  Mrs.  Tliomson — when  she 
heard  her  father's  voice  calling  her  from  the  top  of  the 


THE  PASTOR'S  STUDY.  167 

little  Stair.  When  Lisbeth  opened  the  door  to  the  curate, 
she  was  on  her  way  out,  and  had  not  yet  returned ;  so 
she  did  not  know  any  one  was  with  him,  and  liurried  up 
with  her  arms  bare. 

She  recoiled  half  a  step  when  she  saw  Mr.  Wuigfold, 
then  went  frankly  forward  to  welcome  him,  wiping  her 
hands  in  her  Avhite  pinafore. 

"  It's  only  flour,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  It  is  a  rare  pleasure  now-a-days  to  catch  a  lady  at 
work,"  said  Wingfold.  "  My  wife  always  dusts  my  study 
for  me.  I  told  her  I  would  not  have  it  done  except  she 
did  it — just  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  at  it.  INIy 
conviction  is,  tliat  only  a  lady  can  become  a  thorough 
servant." 

"Why  don't  you  have  lady-helps  then.?"  said 
Dorothy. 

"  Because  I  don't  know  where  to  find  them.  Ladies 
are  scarce ;  and  anything  almost  would  be  better  than  a 
houseful  of  half-ladies." 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  said  Dorothy  thoughtfully. 

Her  father  now  stated  Mr.  Wingfold's  proposal— in  the 
tone  of  one  sorry  to  be  unable  to  entertain  it. 

"  I  see  perfectly  why  you  think  we  could  not  manage 
it,  papa,"  said  Dorothy.  "  But  why  should  not  Miss 
Meredith  lodge  with  us  in  the  same  way  as  with  Mrs. 
Puckridge  ?  She  could  have  the  drawing-room  and  my 
bedroom,  and  her  meals  by  herself.  Lisbeth  is  wretched 
for  Avant  of  dinners  to  cook." 

"  Miss  Meredith  would  hardly  relish  the  idea  of  turning 
you  out  of  your  drawing-room,"  said  Wingfold. 

"  Tell  her  it  may  save  us  from  being  turned  out  of  the 
house.  Tell  her  she  will  be  a  great  help  to  us,"  returned 
Dorothy  eagerly. 

"  My  child,"  said  her  father,  the  tears  standing  in  his 
eyes,  "  your  reproach  sinks  into  my  very  soul." 

"  My  reproach,  father !"  repeated  Dorothy  aghast. 
"  How  you  do  mistake  me  !  I  can't  say  with  you  that 
the  will  of  God  is  everything ;  but  I   can  say  that  far 


1 68  PAUL  FABER. 

less  than  your  will — your  ability — will  always  be  enough 
for  me." 

"  My  child,"  returned  her  father,  "you go  on  to  rebuke 
me  !  You  are  immeasurably  truer  to  me  than  I  am  to 
my  God. — Mr.  Wingfold,  you  love  the  Lord,  else  I  would 
not  confess  my  sin  to  you  :  of  late  I  have  often  thought, 
or  at  least  felt  as  if  he  was  dealing  hardly  with  me.  Ah, 
my  dear  sir !  you  are  a  young  man  :  for  the  peace  of 
)'Our  soul  serve  God  so,  that,  by  the  time  you  are  my  age, 
you  may  be  sure  of  him.  I  try  hard  to  put  my  trust  in 
him,  but  my  faith  is  weak.  It  ought  by  this  time  to  have 
been  strong.  I  always  want  to  see  the  way  he  is  leading 
me — to  understand  something  of  what  he  is  doing  with 
me  or  teaching  me,  before  I  can  accept  his  will,  or  get 
my  heart  to  consent  not  to  complain.  It  makes  me  very 
unhappy.  I  begin  to  fear  that  I  have  never  known  even 
the  beginning  of  confidence,  and  that  faith  has  been  with 
me  but  a  thing  of  the  understanding  and  the  lips." 

He  bowed  his  head  on  his  hands.  Dorothy  went  up  to 
him  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  looking  unspeakably 
sad.     A  sudden  impulse  moved  the  curate. 

"Let  us  pray,"  he  said,  rising,  and  knelt  down. 

It  was  a  strange,  unlikely  thing  to  do  ;  but  he  was  an 
unlikely  man,  and  did  it.  l"he  others  made  haste  to  kneel 
also. 

"  God  of  justice,"  he  said,  "  thou  knowest  how  hard  it 
is  for  us,  and  thou  wilt  be  fair  to  us.  We  have  seen  no 
visions  ;  we  have  never  heard  the  voice  of  thy  Son,  of 
whom  those  tales,  so  dear  to  us,  have  come  down  the 
ages  ;  Ave  have  to  fight  on  in  much  darkness  of  spirit  and 
of  mind,  both  from  the  ignorance  we  cannot  help,  and 
from  the  fault  we  could  have  helped ;  we  inherit  blind- 
ness from  the  error  of  our  fathers  ;  and  when  fear,  or  the 
dread  of  shame,  or  the  pains  of  death,  come  upon  us,  we 
are  ready  to  despair,  and  cry  out  that  there  is  no  God, 
or,  if  tliere  be,  he  has  forgotten  his  children.  There  are 
times  when  the  darkness  closes  about  us  like  a  wall,  and 
thou  appcarest  nowhere,  either  in  our  hearts,  or  in  the 


THE  PAS  TOR'S  S  TUB  V.  169 

outer  universe;  we  cannot  tell  whether  the  things  we 
seemed  to  do  in  thy  name,  were  not  mere  hypocrisies,  and 
our  very  life  is  but  a  gulf  of  darkness.  We  cry  aloud, 
and  our  despair  is  as  a  fire  in  our  bones  to  make  us  cry ; 
but  to  all  our  crying  and  listening,  there  seems  neither 
hearing  nor  answer  in  the  boundless  waste.  Thou  who 
knowest  thyself  God,  who  knowest  thyself  that  for  which 
we  groan,  thou  whom  Jesus  called  Father,  we  appeal  to 
thee,  not  as  we  imagine  thee,  but  as  thou  seest  thyself,  as 
Jesus  knows  thee,  to  thy  very  self  we  cry — help  us,  O 
cause  of  lis  !  O  thou  from  whom  alone  we  are  this 
weakness,  through  whom  alone  we  can  become  strength, 
help  us — be  our  Father.  We  ask  for  nothing  beyond 
what  thy  Son  has  told  us  to  ask.  We  beg  for  no  signs  or 
wonders,  but  for  thy  breath  upon  our  souls,  thy  spirit  in 
our  hearts.  We  pray  for  no  cloven  tongues  of  fire — for 
no  mighty  rousing  of  brain  or  imagination ;  but  we  do, 
with  all  our  power  of  prayer,  pray  for  thy  spirit ;  we  do 
not  even  pray  to  know  that  it  is  given  to  us ;  let  us,  if  so 
it  pleases  thee,  remain  in  doubt  of  the  gift  for  years  to 
come — but  lead  us  thereby.  Knowing  ourselves  only  as 
poor  and  feeble,  aware  only  of  ordinary  and  common 
movements  of  mind  and  soul,  may  we  yet  be  possessed  by 
the  spirit  of  God,  led  by  his  will  in  ours.  For  all  things 
in  a  man,  even  those  that  seem  to  him  the  commonest  and 
least  uplifted,  are  the  creation  of  thy  heart,  and  by  the  lowly 
doors  of  our  wavering  judgment,  dull  imagination,  luke- 
warm love,  and  palsied  will,  thou  canst  enter  and  glorify 
all.  Give  us  patience  because  our  hope  is  in  thee,  not  in 
ourselves.  Work  thy  will  in  us,  and  our  prayers  are 
ended.     Amen." 

They  rose.  The  curate  said  he  would  call  again  in 
the  evening,  bade  them  good-bye,  and  went.  Mr.  Drake 
turned  to  his  daughter  and  said — 

"  Dorothy,  that's  not  the  way  I  have  been  used  to  pray 
or  hear  people  pray ;  nevertheless  the  young  man  seemed 
to  speak  very  straight  up  to  God.  It  appears  to  me  there 
was  another  spirit  there  with  his.     I  will  humble  myself 


170  PAUL  FABER. 

before  tlie  Lord.  Who  knows  but  he  may  lift  me 
up !" 

"  What  can  my  father  mean  by  saying  that  perhaps 
God  will  lift  him  up  ?"  said  Dorothy  to  herself  when  she 
was  alone.  "  It  seems  to  me  if  I  only  knew  God  was 
anywhere,  I  should  want  no  other  lifting  up.  I  should 
then  be  lifted  up  above  everything  for  ever." 

Had  she  said  so  to  the  curate,  he  would  have  told  her 
that  the  only  way  to  be  absolutely  certain  of  God,  is  to 
see  him  as  he  is,  and  for  that  we  must  first  become 
absolutely  pure  in  heart.  For  this  he  is  working  in  us, 
and  perfection  and  vision  will  flash  together.  Were  con- 
viction possible  without  that  purity  and  that  vision,  I 
imagine  it  would  work  evil  in  us,  fix  in  their  imperfection 
our  ideas,  notions,  feelings,  concerning  God,  give  us  for 
his  glory  the  warped  reflection  of  our  cracked  and  spotted 
and  rippled  glass,  and  so  turn  our  worship  into  an 
idolatry. 

Dorothy  was  a  rather  little  woman,  with  lightish  auburn 
hair,  a  large  and  somewhat  heavy  forehead,  fine  grey  eyes, 
small  well-fashioned  features,  a  fair  complexion  on  a  thin 
skin,  and  a  mouth  that  would  have  been  better  in  shape 
if  it  had  not  so  often  been  informed  of  trouble.  With 
this  trouble  their  poverty  had  nothing  to  do ;  that  did 
not  weigh  upon  her  a  straw.  She  was  proud  to  share  her 
father's  lot,  and  could  have  lived  on  as  little  as  any 
labouring  woman  with  seven  children.  She  was  indeed 
a  trifle  happier  since  her  father's  displacement,  and  would 
have  been  happier  still  had  he  found  it  within  the  barest 
possibility  to  decline  the  annuity  allotted  him  ;  for,  as  far 
back  as  she  could  remember,  she  had  been  aware  of  a 
dislike  to  his  position — partly  from  pride  it  may  be,  but 
pardy  also  from  a  sense  of  the  imperfection  of  the  relation 
between  him  and  his  people — one  in  which  love  must  be 
altogether  predominant,  else  is  it  hateful — and  chiefly 
because  of  a  certain  sordid  element  in  the  community — 
a  vile  way  of  looking  at  sacred  things  through  the  spec- 
tacles of  mammon,  more  evident — I  only  say  more  evi  dent 


THE  PASTOR'S  STUDY.  171 

— ill  dissenting  than  in  church-of-England  communities, 
because  of  the  pressure  of  expenses  upon  them.  Perhaps 
the  impossibiHty  of  regarding  her  father's  church  with 
reverence,  laid  her  mind  the  more  open  to  the  cause  of 
her  trouble — such  doubts,  namely,  as  an  active  intellect, 
nourished  on  some  of  the  best  books,  and  disgusted  with 
the  weak  fervour  of  others  rated  high  in  her  hearing,  had 
been  suggesting  for  years  before  any  words  of  Faber's 
reached  her.  The  more  her  devout  nature  longed  to 
worship,  the  more  she  found  it  impossible  to  worship  that 
which  was  presented  for  her  love  and  adoration.  She 
believed  entirely  in  her  father,  but  she  knew  he  could 
not  meet  her  doubts,  for  many  things  made  it  plain  that 
he  had  never  had  such  himself.  An  ordinary  mind  that 
has  had  doubts,  and  has  encountered  and  overcome 
them,  or  verified  and  found  them  the  porters  of  the  gates 
of  truth,  may  be  profoundly  useful  to  any  mind  similarly 
assailed  ;  but  no  knowledge  of  books,  no  amount  of  logic, 
no  degree  of  acquaintance  with  the  wisest  conclusions  of 
others,  can  enable  a  man  who  has  not  encountered  scepti- 
cism in  his  own  mind,  to  afford  any  essential  help  to  those 
caught  in  the  net.  For  one  thing,  such  a  man  will  be  in- 
capable of  conceiving  the  possibility  that  the  net  may  be 
the  net  of  The  Fisher  of  Men. 

Dorothy,  therefore,  was  sorely  oppressed.  For  a  long 
time  her  life  had  seemed  withering  from  her,  and  now 
that  her  father  was  fainting  on  the  steep  path,  and  she 
had  no  water  to  offer  him,  she  was  ready  to  cry  aloud  in 
bitterness  of  spirit. 

She  had  never  heard  the  curate  preach — had  heard 
talk  of  his  oddity  on  all  sides,  from  men  and  women  no 
more  capable  of  judging  him  tlian  the  caterpillar  of 
judging  the  butterfly — which  yet  it  must  become.  The 
draper,  who  understood  him,  naturally  shrunk  from 
praising  to  her  the  teaching  for  which  he  not  unfrequently 
deserted  that  of  her  father,  and  she  had  never  looked  in 
the  direction  of  him  with  any  hope.  Yet  now,  the  very 
first  time  she  had  heard  him  speak  out  of  the  abundance 


172  PAUL  FABER. 

of  his  heart,  he  harl  left  behind  him  a  faint  brown  ray  of 
hope  in  hers.  It  was  very  pecuhar  of  him  to  break  out 
in  prayer  after  such  an  abrupt  fashion — in  the  presence 
of  an  older  minister  than  himself — and  praying  for  him 
too !  But  there  was  such  an  appearance  of  reality 
about  the  man  !  such  a  simplicity  in  his  look !  such  a 
directness  in  his  petitions  !  such  an  active  fervour  of 
hope  in  his  tone — without  an  atom  of  what  she  had  heard 
called  unction  !  His  thought  and  speech  appeared  to 
arise  from  no  separated  sacred  mood  that  might  be  as- 
sumed and  laid  aside,  but  from  present  faith  and  feeling, 
from  the  absolute  point  of  life  at  that  moment  being 
lived  by  him.  It  was  an  immediate  appeal  to  a  hearing, 
and  understanding,  and  caring  God,  whose  breath  was 
the  very  air  his  creatures  breathed,  the  element  of  their 
life  ;  an  utter  acknowledgment  of  his  will  as  the  bliss  of 
his  sons  and  daughters  !  Such  wvis  the  shining  of  the 
curate's  light,  and  it  woke  hope  in  Dorothy. 

In  the  evening  he  came  again  as  he  had  said,  and 
brought  Juliet.  Each  in  the  other,  Dorothy  and  she 
recognized  suffering,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  every- 
thing was  arranged  between  them.  Juliet  was  charmed 
with  the  simplicity  and  intentness  of  Dorothy  ;  in  Juliet's 
manner  and  carriage,  Dorothy  at  once  recognized  a 
breeding  superior  to  her  own,  and  at  once  laid  hold  of 
the  excellence  by  acknowledging  it.  In  a  moment  she 
made  Juliet  understand  how  things  were,  and  Juliet  saw 
as  quickly  that  she  must  assent  to  the  arrangement  pro- 
posed. But  she  had  not  been  ^\-ith  them  two  days, 
when  Dorothy  found  the  drawing-room  as  open  to  her 
as  before  she  came,  and  far  more  pleasant. 

While  the  girls  were  talking  below,  the  two  clergymen 
sat  again  in  the  study. 

"  I  have  taken  the  liberty,"  said  the  curate,  "of  bring- 
ing an  old  book  I  should  like  you  to  look  at,  if  you  don't 
mind — chiefly  for  the  sake  of  some  verses  that  pleased 
me  much  when  I   read  them  fust,  and  now  please  me 


THE  PASTOR'S  STUDY.  173 

anore  when  I  read  them  for  the  tentli  tune.  If  you  will 
allow  me,  I  will  read  them  to  you," 

Mr.  Drake  liked  good  poetry,  but  did  not  much  relish 
being  called  upon  to  admire,  as  he  imagined  he  was  now. 
He  assented,  of  course,  graciously  enough,  and  soon  found 
his  mistake. 

This  is  the  poem  Wingfold  read  : 

CONSIDER  THE   RAVENS, 

Lord,  according  to  thy  words, 
I  have  considered  thy  birds  ; 
And  I  find  their  life  good, 
And  better  the  better  understood  : 
Sowing  neither  curn  nor  wheat, 
They  have  all  that  they  can  eat ; 
Reaping  no  more  than  they  sow, 
They  have  all  they  can  stow  ; 
Having  neither  barn  nor  store, 
Hungiy  again,  they  eat  more. 

Considering,  I  see  too  that  they 
Have  a  busy  life,  and  plenty  of  play  ; 
In  the  earth  they  dig  their  bills  deep. 
And  work  well  though  they  do  not  heap ; 
Then  to  play  in  the  air  they  are  not  loath. 
And  their  nests  between  are  better  than  both. 

But  this  is  when  there  blow  no  storms  ; 
When  berries  are  plenty  in  winter,  and  worms  ; 
"When  their  feathers  are  thick,  and  oil  is  enough 
To  keep  the  cold  out  and  the  rain  off : 
If  there  should  come  a  long  hard  frost, 
Then  it  looks  as  thy  birds  were  lost. 

But  I  consider  further,  and  find 

A  hungry  bird  has  a  free  mind  ; 

He  is  hungry  to-day,  not  to-morrow  ; 

Steals  no  comfort,  no  grief  doth  borrow ; 

This  moment  is  his,  thy  will  hath  said  it. 

The  next  is  nothing  till  thou  hast  made  it. 

The  bird  has  pain,  but  has  no  fear, 
Which  is  the  worst  of  any  gear ; 


174  PAUL  FABER. 

When  cold  and  hunger  and  harm  betide  him. 
He  gathers  them  not,  to  stuff  inside  him  ; 
Content  with  the  day's  ill  he  has  got, 
He  waits  just,  nor  haggles  with  his  lot  ; 
Neither  jumbles  God's  will 
With  driblets  from  his  own  still. 

But  next  I  see,  in  my  endeavour, 
Thy  birds  here  do  not  live  for  ever  ; 
That  cold  or  hunger,  sickness  or  age, 
Finishes  their  earthly  stage  ; 
The  rook  drops  without  a  stroke, 
And  never  gives  another  croak  ; 
Birds  lie  here,  and  birds  lie  there, 
With  little  feathers  all  astare  ; 
And  in  thy  own  sermon,  thou 
That  the  sparrow  falls  dost  allow. 

It  shall  not  cause  me  any  alarm. 
For  neither  so  comes  the  bird  to  harm, 
Seeing  our  Father,  thou  hast  said, 
Is  by  the  sparrow's  dying  bed  ; 
Therefore  it  is  a  blessed  place. 
And  the  sparrow  in  high  grace. 

It  Cometh  therefore  to  this,  Lord  : 
I  have  considered  thy  word, 
And  henceforth  will  be  thy  bird. 

By  the  time  Wingfold  ceased,  the  tears  were  running 
down  the  old  man's  face.  When  he  saw  that,  the  curate 
rose  at  once,  laid  the  book  on  the  table,  shook  hands 
with  him,  and  went  away.  The  minister  laid  his  head 
on  the  table,  and  wept. 

Juliet  had  soon  almost  as  much  teaching  as  she  could 
manage.  People  liked  her,  and  children  came  to  love 
her  a  little.  A  good  report  of  her  spread.  The  work 
was  hard,  chiefly  because  it  included  more  walking  tiian 
she  had  been  accustomed  to ;  but  Dorothy  generally 
walked  with  her,  and  to  the  places  farthest  off,  Helen 
frequently  took  her  with  her  ponies,  and  she  got  through 
the  day's  work  pretty  well.  The  fees  were  small,  but 
they  sufficed,  and  made  life  a  little  easier  to  her  host  and 
his  family.     Amanda  got  very  fond  of  her.  and,  without 


THE  PASTOR'S  STUDY.  175 

pretending  to  teach  her,  Juhet  taught  her  a  good  deal. 
On  Sundays  she  went  to  church  ;  and  Doroth)^  allhougli 
it  cost  her  a  struggle  to  face  the  imputation  of  resent- 
ment, by  wliich  the  chapel-people  would  necessarily 
interpret  the  change,  went  regularly  with  her,  in  the 
growing  hope  of  receiving  liglit  from  the  curate.  Her 
father  also  not  unfrequently  accompanied  her. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


TWO    MINDS. 


jLL  this  time  poor  Faber,  to  his  offer  of  him- 
self to  Juliet,  had  received  no  answer 
but  a  swoon — or  something  very  near 
it.  Every  attempt  he  made  to  see  her 
alone  at  the  rectory  had  been  foiled  ;  and 
he  almost  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
curate  and  his  wife  had  set  themselves  to  prejudice  against 
himself  a  mind  already  prejudiced  against  his  principles. 
It  added  to  his  uneasiness  that,  as  he  soon  discovered, 
she  went  regularly  to  church.  He  knew  the  power  and 
persuasion  of  Wingfold,  and  looked  upon  his  influence 
as  antagonistic  to  his  hopes.  Pride,  anger,  and  fear  were 
all  at  work  in  him  ;  but  he  went  on  calling,  and  did 
his  best  to  preserve  an  untroubled  demeanour.  Juliet 
imagined  no  change  in  his  feelings,  and  her  behaviour  to 
him  was  not  such  as  to  prevent  them  from  deepening 
still. 

Every  time  he  went,  it  was  with  a  desperate  resolution 
of  laying  his  hand  on  the  veil  in  which  she  had  wrapt 
herself,  but  every  time  he  found  it  impossible,  for  one 
reason  or  another,  to  make  a  single  movement  towards 
withdrawing  it.  Again  and  again  he  tried  to  write  to 
her,  but  the  haunting  suspicion  that  she  would  lay  his 
epistle  before  her  new  friends,  always  made  liim  throw 


TWO  MINDS.  177 

down  his  pen  in  a  smothering  indignation.  He  found 
himself  compelled  to  wait  what  opportunity  cluince  or 
change  might  afford  him. 

When  he  learned  that  she  had  gone  to  live  with  the 
Drakes,  it  was  a  relief  to  him  ;  for  although  he  knew 
the  minister  was  far  more  personal  in  his  hostility  than 
\\'ingfold,  he  was  confident  his  influence  over  her  would 
not  be  so  great;  and  now  he  would  have  a  better  chance, he 
thought,  of  seeing  her  alone.  Meantime  he  took  satisfac- 
tion in  knowing  that  he  did  not  neglect  a  single  patient, 
and  that  in  no  case  had  he  been  less  successful  either 
as  to  diagnosis  or  treatment  because  of  his  trouble.  He 
pitied  himself  just  a  little  as  a  martyr  to  the  truth,  a 
martyr  the  more  meritorious  that  the  truth  to  which  he 
sacrificed  himself  gave  him  no  hope  for  the  future,  and 
for  the  present  no  shadow  of  compensation  beyond  the 
satisfaction  of  not  being  deceived.  It  remains  a  question, 
however,  which  there  was  no  one  to  put  to  Faber — 
whether  he  had  not  some  amends  in  relief  from  the  notion, 
vaguely  it  may  be,  yet  unpleasantly  haunting  many  minds 
— of  a  supreme  being — a  deity — putting  forth  claims  to 
obedience — an  uncomfortable  sort  of  phantom,  however 
imaginary,  for  one  to  have  brooding  above  him,  and  con- 
tinually coming  between  him  and  the  freedom  of  an  else 
empty  universe.  To  the  human  soul  as  I  have  learned 
to  know  it,  an  empty  universe  would  be  as  an  exhausted 
receiver  to  the  lungs  that  thirst  for  air ;  but  Faber  liked 
the  idea  :  how  he  would  have  liked  the  reality  remains 
another  thing.  I  suspect  that  what  we  call  damnation  is 
something  as  near  it  as  it  can  be  made  ;  itself  it  cannot  be, 
for  even  the  damned  must  live  by  God's  life.  Was  it,  I 
repeat,  no  compensation  for  his  martyrdom  to  his  precious 
truth,  to  know  that  to  none  had  he  to  render  an  account? 
Was  he  relieved  from  no  misty  sense  of  a  moral  conscious- 
ness judging  his,  and  ready  to  enforce  its  rebuke— a  belief 
which  seems  to  me  to  involve  the  liigliestidea,  the  noblest 
pledge,  the  richest  promise  of  our  nature  ?  There  may 
be  men  in  whose  turning  from  implicit  to  explicit  denial, 

N 


178  PAUL  FABER. 

no  such  element  of  relief  is  concerned — I  cannot  tell ; 
but  although  the  structure  of  Paul  Faber's  life  had  in 
it  material  of  noble  sort,  I  doubt  if  he  was  one  of 
such. 

The  summer  at  length  reigned  lordly  in  the  land.  The 
roses  were  in  bloom,  from  the  black  purple  to  the  Avarm 
white.  Ah,  those  roses  !  he  must  indeed  be  a  God  who 
invented  the  roses.  They  sank  into  the  red  hearts  of  men 
and  women,  caused  old  men  to  sigh,  young  men  to  long, 
and  women  to  weep  with  strange  ecstatic  sadness.  But 
their  scent  made  Faber  lonely  and  poor,  for  the  rose-heart 
would  not  open  its  leaves  to  him. 

The  winds  were  soft  and  odour-laden.  The  wide 
meadows  through  wliich  flowed  the  river,  seemed  to 
smite  the  eye  with  their  greenness  ;  and  the  black  and 
red  and  white  kine  bent  down  their  sleek  necks  among 
the  marsh-marigolds  and  the  meadow-sweet  and  tlie 
hundred  lovely  things  that  border  the  level  water-courses, 
and  fed  on  the  blessed  grass.  Along  the  banks,  here 
w'ith  nets,  there  v>nth  rod  and  line,  they  caught  the 
gleaming  salmon,  and  his  silver  armour  Hashed  useless 
in  the  sun.  The  old  pastor  sal  much  in  his  little  summer- 
house,  and  paced  his  green  walk  on  the  border  of  the 
Lythe ;  but  in  all  tlie  gold  of  the  sunlight,  in  all  the  glow 
and  the  plenty  around  him,  his  heart  was  oppressed  with 
the  sense  of  his  poverty.  It  was  not  that  he  could  not 
do  the  thing  he  would,  but  that  he  could  not  meet  and 
rectify  the  thing  he  had  done.  He  could  behave,  he 
said  to  himself,  neither  as  a  gentleman  nor  a  Christian, 
for  lack  of  money;  and,  worst  of  all,  he  could  not  get 
rid  of  a  sense  of  'v\Tong — of  rebellious  heavings  of  heart, 
of  resentments,  of  doubts  that  came  thick  upon  him — 
not  of  the  existence  of  God,  nor  of  his  goodness  to- 
wards men  in  general,  but  of  his  kindness  to  himself. 
Logically,  no  doubt,  they  were  all  bound  in  one,  and  the 
being  that  could  be  unfair  to  a  beetle,  could  not  be  God, 
could  not  make  a  beetle ;  but  our  feelings,  especially 
where  a  wretched  self  is  concerned,  are  notably  illogical. 


TWO  MINDS.  1^9 

The  morning  of  a  glorious  day  came  in  with  safiron, 
gold,  and  crimson.  The  colour  sobered,  but  the  glory 
grew.  The  fleeting  dyes  passed,  but  the  azure  sky,  the 
white  clouds,  and  the  yellow  fire  remained.  The  larks 
dropped  down  to  their  breakfast.  The  kine  had  long 
been  busy  at  theirs,  for  they  had  slept  their  short  night 
in  the  midst  of  their  food.  Everything  that  could  move 
was  in  motion,  and  what  could  not  move  was  shining, 
and  what  could  not  shine  was  feeling  warm.  But  the 
pastor  was  tossing  restless.  He  had  had  a  troubled 
night.  The  rent  of  his  house  fell  due  with  the  miserable 
pittance  allowed  him  by  the  church ;  but  the  hard  thing 
was  not  that  he  had  to  pay  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
latter  to  meet  the  former,  but  that  he  must  first  take 
it.  The  thought  of  that  burned  in  his  veins  like  poison. 
But  he  had  no  choice.  To  refuse  it  would  be  dishonest ; 
it  would  be  to  spare  or  perhaps  indulge  his  feelings  at 
the  expense  of  the  guiltless.  He  must  not  kill  himself,  he 
said,  because  he  had  insured  his  life,  and  the  act  would 
leave  his  daughter  nearly  destitute.  Yet  how  was  the 
insurance  any  longer  to  be  paid  ?  It  was  hard,  with  all 
his  faults,  to  be  brought  to  this  !  It  was  hard  that  he 
who  all  his  life  had  been  urging  people  to  have  faith, 
should  have  his  own  turned  into  a  mockery  ! 

Here  heart  and  conscience  together  smote  him.  Well 
might  his  faith  be  mocked,  for  what  better  was  it  than  a 
mockery  itself!  Where  was  this  thiiig  he  called  his 
faith  ?  Was  he  not  cherishing,  talking  flat  unbelief.? — as 
much  as  telling  God  he  did //t*/  trust  in  him?  Where 
was  the  faithlessness  of  which  his  faithlessness  com- 
plained ?  A  phantom  of  its  own  !  Yea,  let  God  be  true 
and  every  man  a  liar  !  Had  the  hour  come,  and  not  the 
money?  A  fine  faith  it  was  that  depended  on  the  very 
presence  of  the  help  ! — that  required  for  its  existence  that 
the  supply  should  come  before  the  need  ! — a  fine  faith  in 
truth,  which  still  Avould  follow  in  the  rear  of  sight  ! — But 
why  then  did  God  leave  him  thus  Avithout  faith  ?  \\'hy 
did  not  God  make  him  able  to  trust?     He  had  prayed 

N    2 


i8o  PAUL  FABER. 

quite  as  much  for  faith  as  for  money.  His  conscience 
repUed,  "That  is  your  part — the  thing  you  will  not  do. 
If  God  put  faith  into  your  heart  without  your  stirring  up 
your  heart  to  believe,  the  faith  would  be  God's  and  not 
yours.  It  is  true  all  is  God's  ;  he  made  this  you  call  vie, 
and  made  it  able  to  beheve,  and  gave  you  himself  to 
believe  in  ;  and  if  after  that  he  were  to  make  you  believe 
Avithout  your  doing  your  utmost  part,  he  would  be  making 
you  down  again  into  a  sort  of  holy  dog,  not  making  you 
grow  a  man  like  Christ  Jesus  his  Son." — "But  I  have 
tried  hard  to  trust  in  him,"  said  the  little  self. — "Yes, 
and  then  fainted  and  ceased,"  said  the  great  self,  the 
conscience. 

Thus  it  v/ent  on  in  the  poor  man's  soul.  Ever  and 
anon  he  said  to  himself,  "  Though  he  slay  me,  yet  will  I 
trust  in  him,"  and  ever  and  anon  his  heart  sickened 
afresh,  and  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  shall  go  down  to  the 
grave  with  shame,  and  my  memorial  will  be  debts  unpaid, 
for  the  Lord  hath  forsaken  me."  All  the  night  he  had 
lain  wrestling  with  fear  and  doubt :  fear  was  hard  upon 
liim,  but  doubt  was  much  harder.  "  If  I  could  but  trust," 
he  said,  "  I  could  endure  anything." 

In  the  splendour  of  the  dawn,  he  fell  into  a  troubled 
sleep,  and  a  more  troubled  dream,  which  woke  him  again 
to  misery.  Outside  his  chamber,  the  world  was  rich  in 
light,  in  song,  in  warmth,  in  odour,  in  growth,  in  colour, 
in  space  \  inside,  all  was  to  him  gloomy,  groanful,  cold, 
musty,  ungenial,  dingy,  confined  ;  yet  there  was  he  more 
at  case,  shrunk  from  the  light,  and  m  the  glorious  morn- 
ing that  shone  through  the  chinks  of  his  shutters,  saw  but 
an  alien  common  day,  not  the  coach  of  his  Father,  come 
to  carry  him  yet  another  stage  towards  his  home.  He 
was  in  want  of  nothing  at  the  moment.  There  were  no 
holes  in  the  well-polished  shoes  that  seemed  to  keep 
ghostly  guard  outside  his  chamber-door.  The  clothes 
that  lay  by  his  bedside  Avere  indeed  a  little  threadbare, 
but  sound  and  spotless.  The  hat  that  hung  in  the  passage 
below  mi.irht  have  been  much  shabbier  without  neces- 


TIVO  MINDS.  l8i 

sarily  indicating  poverty.  His  walking-stick  had  a  gold 
knob  like  any  earl's.  If  he  did  choose  to  smoke  a 
churchwarden,  lie  had  a  great  silver-mounted  meerschaum 
on  his  mantelslielf.  True,  the  butcher's  shop  had  for 
some  time  contributed  nothing  to  his  dinners,  but  his 
vegetable  diet  agreed  with  him.  He  would  himself  have 
given  any  man  time,  would  as  soon  have  taken  his  child 
by  the  throat  as  his  debtor,  had  worshipped  God  after  a 
bettering  fashion  for  forty  years  at  least,  and  yet  would 
not  give  (lod  time  to  do  his  best  for  liim — the  best  that 
perfect  love,  and  power  limited  only  by  the  lack  of  full 
concent  in  the  man  himself,  could  do. 

His  daughter  always  came  into  his  room  the  first  thing 
in  the  morning.  It  was  plain  to  her  that  he  had  been 
more  restless  than  usual,  and  at  sight  of  his  glazy  red- 
rimmed  eyes  and  gray  face,  her  heart  sank  within  her. 
For  a  moment  she  was  half  angry  with  him,  thinking  in 
herself  that  if  she  believed  as  he  did,  she  would  never 
trouble  her  heart  about  anything  :  her  head  should  do  all 
the  business.  But  with  his  faith,  she  would  have  done 
just  the  same  as  he.  It  is  one  thing  to  be  so  used  to 
certain  statements  and  modes  of  thought  that  you  take 
all  for  true,  and  quite  another  so  to  believe  the  heart  of  it 
all,  that  you  are  in  essential  and  imperturbable  peace  and 
gladness  because  of  it.  But  oh,  how  the  poor  girl  sighed 
for  the  freedom  of  a  God  to  trust  in  !  She  could  content 
herself  with  the  husks  the  swine  ate,  if  only  she  knew  that 
a  father  sat  at  the  home-heart  of  the  universe,  wanting  to 
have  her.  Faithful  in  her  faithlessness,  she  did  her  best 
to  comfort  her  believing  father  :  beyond  the  love  that 
offered  it,  she  had  but  cold  comfort  to  give.  He  did  not 
listen  to  a  word  she  said,  and  she  left  him  at  last  with  a 
sigh,  and  went  to  get  him  his  breakfast.  When  she 
returned,  she  brought  him  his  letters  with  his  tea  and 
toast.  He  told  her  to  take  them  away  :  she  might  open 
them  herself  if  she  liked  ;  they  could  be  nothing  but  bills  ! 
She  might  take  the  tray  too  ;  he  did  not  want  any  break- 
fast :  what  right  had  he  to  eat  what  he  had  no  money  to 


iS:l  PAUL  FABER. 

pay  for!  There  would  be  a  long  bill  at  the  baker's  next : 
What  right  had  any  one  to  live  on  other  people  !  Doro- 
tliy  told  him  she  paid  for  every  loaf  as  it  came,  and  that 
there  was  no  bill  at  the  baker's,  though  indeed  he  had 
done  his  best  to  begin  one.  He  stretched  out  his  arms, 
drew  her  down  to  his  bosom,  said  she  was  his  only  com- 
fort, then  pushed  her  away,  turned  his  face  to  the  wall, 
and  wept.  She  sav/  it  would  be  better  to  leave  him,  and, 
knowing  in  this  mood  he  would  eat  nothing,  she  carried 
the  tray  with  her,  A  few  moments  after,  she  came  rushing 
up  the  stair  like  a  wind,  and  entered  his  room  swiftly,  her 
face  "  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what  is  dead." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE    INIINISTER'S    BEDROOM. 


^HE  next  day,  in  the  afternoon,  old  Lisbeth 
appeared  at  the  rectory,  with  a  hurried 
note,  in  which  Dorothy  begged  Mr.  Wing- 
fold  to  come  and  see  her  father.  The 
curate  rose  at  once  and  went.  When  he 
reached  the  house,  Dorothy,  who  had 
evidently  been  watching  for  his  arrival,  herself  opened 
the  door. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  asked.  "  Nothing  alarming, 
I  hope?" 

"  I  hope  not,"  she  answered.  There  was  a  strange 
light  on  her  face,  like  that  of  a  sunless  sky  on  a  deep, 
shadowed  well.  "But  I  am  a  little  alauned  about  him. 
He  has  suffered  much  of  late.  Ah,  Mr.  Wingfold,  you 
don't  know  how  good  he  is  !     Of  course,  being  no  friend 

to  the  church, " 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  that,  the  church  is  so  little  of  a 
friend  to  herself,"  interrupted  the  curate,  relieved  to  find 
her  so  composed,  for  as  he  came  along  he  had  dreaded 
something  terrible. 

"  He  wants  very  much  to  see  you.  He  thinks  per- 
haps you  may  be  able  to  help  him.  I  am  sure  if  you  can't, 
nobody  can.  But  please  don't  heed  much  what  he  says 
about  himself.     He  is  feverish  and  excited.     There  is 


i84  PAUL  FABER. 

such  a  thing — is  there  not? — as  a  morbid  humiHty?  I 
don't  mean  a  folse  liumility,  but  one  that  passes  over  into 
a  kind  of  self  disgust." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  answered  the  curate,  lay- 
ing down  his  hat :  he  never  took  his  hat  into  a  sick- 
room. 

Dorothy  led  the  way  up  the  narrow  creaking  stairs. 

It  was  a  lowly  little  chamber  in  which  the  once 
popular  preacher  lay— not  so  good  as  that  he  had  occu- 
pied when  a  boy,  two  stories  above  his  father's  shop. 
That  shop  had  been  a  thorn  in  his  spirit  in  the  days  of 
his  worldly  success,  but  again  and  again  this  morning  he 
had  been  remembering  it  as  a  very  haven  of  comfort  and 
peace.  He  almost  forgot  himself  into  a  dream  of  it 
once ;  for  one  blessed  moment,  through  the  upper  half 
of  the  window  he  saw  the  snow  falling  in  the  street,  while 
he  sat  inside  and  half  under  the  counter,  reading  Robin- 
son Crusoe  !  Could  anything  short  of  heaven  be  so 
comfortable  ? 

As  the  curate  stepped  in,  a  grizzled  head  turned 
towards  him  a  haggard  face  with  dry  bloodshot  eyes,  and 
a  long  hand  came  from  the  bed  to  greet  him. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Wingfold  !"  cried  the  minister,  "God  has 
forsaken  me.  If  he  had  only  forgotten  me,  I  could  have 
borne  that,  I  think  ;  for,  as  Job  says,  the  time  would  have 
come  when  he  would  have  had  a  desire  to  the  work  of 
liis  hands.  But  he  has  turned  his  back  upon  me,  and 
taken  his  free  Spirit  from  me.  He  has  ceased  to  take 
his  own  way,  to  do  his  will  with  me,  and  has  given  me 
my  way  and  my  will.  Sit  down,  Mr.  Wingfold.  You 
cannot  comfort  me,  but  you  are  a  true  servant  of  God, 
and  I  will  tell  you  my  sorrow.  I  am  no  friend  to  the 
church,  as  you  know,  but " 

"  So  long  as  you  are  a  friend  of  its  head,  that  goes  for 
little  with  me,"  said  the  curate.  "  But  if  you  will  allow 
me,  I  should  like  to  say  just  one  word  on  the  matter." 

He  Avished  to  try  what  a  diversion  of  thought  might 
do  ;  not  that  he  foolishly  desired  to  make  him  forget  his 


THE  MINISTER'S  BEDROOM.  1S5 

trouble,  but  that  he  knew  from  experience  any  gap  might 
let  in  comfort. 

"  Say  on,  Mr.  Wingfold.    I  am  a  worm  and  no  man." 

"  It  seems,  then,  to  me  a  mistake  for  any  community 
to  spend  precious  energy  upon  even  a  just  finding  of 
fault  with  another.  The  thing  is,  to  trim  the  lamp  and 
clean  the  glass  of  our  own,  that  it  may  be  a  light  to  the 
world.  It  is  just  the  same  with  communities  as  with 
individuals.  The  community  which  casts  if  it  be  but 
the  mote  out  of  its  own  eye,  does  the  best  thing  it  can 
for  the  beam  in  its  neighbour's.  For  my  part,  I  confess 
that,  so  far  as  the  clergy  form  and  represent  the  church 
of  England,  it  is  and  has  for  a  long  time  been  doing- 
its  best — not  its  worst,  thank  God — to  serve  God  and 
Mammon." 

"Ah  !  that's  my  beam  !"  cried  the  minister.  "  I  have 
been  serving  ]\Iammon  assiduously.  I  served  him  not  a 
little  in  the  time  of  my  prosperity,  with  confidence  and 
show,  and  then  in  my  adversity  with  fears  and  complaints. 
Our  Lord  tells  us  expressly  that  we  are  to  take  no  thought 
for  the  morrow,  because  we  cannot  serve  God  and  Mam- 
mon. I  have  been  taking  thought  for  a  hundred  morrows, 
and  that  not  patiently,  but  grumbling  in  my  heart  at  his 
dealings  with  me.  Therefore  now  he  has  cast  me 
off." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  he  has  cast  you  off?"  asked 
the  curate. 

"  Because  he  has  given  me  my  own  way  with  such  a 
vengeance.  I  have  been  pulling,  pulling  my  hand  out  of 
his,  and  he  has  let  me  go,  and  I  lie  in  the  dirt." 

"  But  you  have  not  told  me  your  grounds  for  conclud- 
ing so." 

"  Suppose  a  child  had  been  crying  and  fretting  after  his 
mother  for  a  spoonful  of  jam,"  said  the  minister,  quite 
gravely,  "and  at  last  she  set  him  down  to  a  whole  pot — 
what  would  you  say  to  that  ?" 

"  I  should  say  she  meant  to  give  him  a  sharp  lesson, 
perhaps  a  reproof  as  well — certainly  not  that  she  meant 


]b6  PAUL  FABER. 

to  cast  him  off,"  answered  Wingfold,   laugliing.     "  But 
still  I  do  not  understand." 

"  Have  you  not  heard  then  ?  Didn't  Dorothy  tell  you  ?" 

"  She  has  told  me  nothing." 

"  Not  that  my  old  uncle  has  left  me  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds  and  more  ?" 

The  curate  was  on  the  point  of  saying,  "  I  am  very 
glad  to  hear  it,"  when  the  warning  Dorothy  had  given 
him  returned  to  his  mind,  and  with  it  the  fear  that  the 
pastor  was  under  a  delusion — that,  as  a  rich  man  is  some 
times  not  unnaturally  seized  wdth  the  mania  of  imagined 
poverty,  so  this  poor  man's  mental  barometer  had,  from 
excess  of  poverty,  turned  its  index  right  round  again  to 
riches. 

"Oh!"  he  returned,  lightly  and  soothingly,  "perhaps 
it  is  not  so  bad  as  that.  You  may  have  been  misinformed. 
There  may  be  some  mistake." 

"No,  no!"  returned  the  minister;  "it  is  true,  every 
word  of  it.  You  shall  see  the  lawyers'  letter.  Dorothy 
has  it,  I  think.  My  uncle  was  an  ironmonger  in  a  country 
town,  got  on,  and  bought  a  little  bit  of  land  in  which 
he  found  iron.  I  knew  he  was  flourishing,  but  he  was  a 
churchman  and  a  terrible  tory,  and  I  never  dreamed  he 
would  remember  me.  There  had  been  no  communica- 
tion between  our  family  and  his  for  many  years.  He 
must  have  fancied  me  still  a  flourishing  London  minister, 
with  a  rich  wife  !  If  he  had  had  a  suspicion  of  how  sorely 
I  needed  a  few  pounds,  I  cannot  believe  he  would  have 
left  me  a  farthing.  He  did  not  save  his  money  to  waste 
it  on  bread  and  cheese,  I  can  fancy  him  saying." 

Although  a  look  almost  of  despair  kept  coming  and 
going  upon  his  fece,  he  lay  so  still,  and  spoke  so  quietly 
and  collectedly,  that  Wingfold  began  to  wonder  whether 
there  might  not  be  some  fact  in  his  statement.  He  did 
not  well  know  what  to  say. 

"  When  I  heard  the  news  from  Dorothy — she  read  the 
letter  first,"  Mr.  Drake  went  on,  "  — old  fool  that  I  was  ! 
J.  was  filled  with  such  delight  that,  although  I  could  not 


THE  MINISTER'S  BEDKOOM.  187 

have  said  whether  I  believed  or  not,  the  very  idea  of  the 
thing  made  me  weep.  Alas  !  Mr.  Wingfold,  I  have  had 
visions  of  God  in  which  the  whole  world  would  not  have 

seemed  worth  a  salt  tear  !     And  now  ! 1  jumped  out 

of  bed,  and  liurried  on  my  clothes,  but  by  the  time  I  came 
to  kneel  at  my  bedside,  God  was  away.  I  could  not 
speak  a  word  to  him  !  I  had  lost  the  trouble  that  kept 
me  crying  after  him  like  a  little  child  at  his  mother's  heels, 
the  bond  was  broken,  and  he  was  out  of  sight.  I  tried 
to  be  thankful,  but  my  heart  was  so  full  of  the  money,  it 
lay  like  a  stufied  bag.  But  I  dared  not  go  even  to  my 
study  till  I  had  prayed.  I  tramped  up  and  down  this  little 
room,  thinking  more  about  paying  my  butcher's  bill  than 
anything  else.  I  would  give  him  a  silver  snuft-box ;  but 
as  to  God  and  his  goodness  my  heart  felt  like  a  stone  :  I 
could  not  lift  it  up.  All  at  once  I  saw  how  it  was  :  he 
had  heard  my  prayers  in  anger  !  Mr.  Wingfold,  the  Lord 
has  sent  me  this  money  as  he  sent  the  quails  to  the 
Israelites  :  while  it  was  yet,  as  it  were,  between  my  teeth, 
he  smote  me  with  hardness  of  heart.  O  my  God  !  how 
shall  I  live  in  the  world  with  a  hundred  thousand  pounds 
instead  of  my  Father  in  heaven  !  If  it  \sQxt  only  that  he 
had  hidden  his  face,  I  should  be  able  to  pray  somehow  ! 
He  has  given  me  over  to  the  Mammon  I  was  worsliipping  ! 
Hypocrite  that  I  am  !  how  often  have  I  not  pointed  out 
to  my  people,  while  yet  I  dwelt  in  the  land  of  Goshen, 
that  to  fear  poverty  was  the  same  thing  as  to  love  monev, 
for  that  both  came  of  lack  of  faith  in  the  living  God  ! 
Therefore  has  he  taken  from  me  the  light  of  his  counten- 
ance, which  yet,  Mr.  Wingfold,  with  all  my  sins  and 
shortcomings,  yea,  and  my  hypocrisy,  is  the  all  in  all 
to  me  !' 

He  looked  the  curate  in  the  face  with  such  wild  eyes 
as  convinced  him  that,  even  if  perfectly  sane  at  present, 
he  was  in  no  small  danger  of  losing  his  reason. 

"  Then  you  v/ould  willingly  give  up  this  large  fortune," 
he  said,  "  and  return  to  your  former  condition  ?" 

"  Rather  than  not  be  able  to  pray — I  would  !  I  would!" 


l88  PAUL  FABER. 

he  cried ;  then  paused  and  added,  " — if  only  he  would 
gi\'e  me  enough  to  pay  my  debts  and  not  have  to  beg  of 
other  people." 

Then,  with  tone  suddenly  changed  to  one  of  agonized 
effort,  with  clenched  hands,  and  eyes  shut  tight,  he  cried 
vehemently,  as  if  in  the  face  of  a  lingering  unwillingness 
to  encounter  again  the  miseries  through  which  he  had 
been  passing, 

"  No,  no,  Lord !  Forgive  me.  I  will  not  think  of 
conditions.  Thy  will  be  done  !  Take  the  money,  and 
let  me  be  a  debtor  and  a  beggar  if  thou  wilt,  only  let  me 
pray  to  thee  ;  and  do  thou  make  it  up  to  my  creditors." 

^Vingfold's  spirit  was  greatly  moved.  Here  was  vic- 
tory !  Whether  the  fortune  was  a  fact  or  a  fancy,  made 
no  feather  of  difference.  He  thanked  God  and  took 
courage.  The  same  instant  the  door  opened,  and  Doro- 
thy came  in,  hesitating,  and  looking  strangely  anxious. 
He  threw  her  a  face-question.  She  gently  bowed  hei 
head,  and  gave  him  a  letter  with  a  broad  black  border 
Avhich  she  held  in  her  hand. 

He  read  it.  No  room  for  rational  doubt  was  left. 
He  folded  it  softly,  gave  it  back  to  her,  and  rising, 
kneeled  down  by  the  bedside,  near  the  foot,  and  said — 

"  Father,  whose  is  the  fulness  of  the  earth,  I  thank 
thee  that  thou  hast  set  my  brother's  heel  on  the  neck  ot 
his  enemy.  But  the  suddenness  of  thy  relief  from  holy 
poverty  and  evil  care,  has  so  shaken  his  heart  and  brain, 
or  rather,  perhaps,  has  made  him  think  so  keenly  of  liis 
lack  of  faith  in  his  Father  in  heaven,  that  he  fears  thou 
hast  thrown  him  the  gift  in  disdain,  as  to  a  dog  under  the 
table,  though  never  didst  thou  disdain  a  dog,  and  not 
given  it  as  to  a  child,  from  thy  hand  into  his.  Father, 
let  thy  spirit  come  with  the  gift,  or  take  it  again,  and 
make  him  poor  and  able  to  pray." — Here  came  an  amen, 
groaned  out  as  from  the  bottom  of  a  dungeon. — "Pardon 
him,  father,"  the  curate  prayed  on,  "  all  his  past  discon- 
tent and  the  smallness  of  his  faith.  Thou  art  our  father, 
and  thou  knowest  us  tenfold  better  than  we  know  our- 


THE  MINISTER'S  BEDROOM.  189 

selves :  we  pray  thee  not  only  to  pardon  us,  but  to  make 
all  righteous  excuse  for  us,  when  we  dare  not  make  any 
for  ourselves,  for  thou  art  the  truth.  We  will  try  to  be 
better  children.  We  will  go  on  climbing  the  mount  pf 
God  through  all  the  cloudy  darkness  that  swathes  it, 
yea,  even  in  the  face  of  the  worst  of  terrors — that,  when 
we  reach  the  top,  we  shall  find  no  one  there." — Here 
Dorothy  burst  into  sobs.— "  Father  !"  thus  the  curate 
ended  his  prayer,  "take  pity  on  thy  children.  Thou 
wilt  not  give  them  a  piece  of  bread,  in  place  of  a  stone — 
to  poison  them  !  The  egg  thou  givest  will  not  be  a  ser- 
pent's. We  are  thine,  and  thou  art  ours  :  in  us  be  thy 
will  done  !     Amen." 

As  he  rose  from  his  knees,  he  saw  that  the  minister  had 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  lay  perfectly  still. 
Rightly  judging  that  he  was  renewing  the  vain  effort  to 
rouse,  by  force  of  the  will,  feelings  which  had  been 
stunned  by  the  strange  shock,  he  ventured  to  try  a  more 
authoritative  mode  of  address. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Drake,  you  have  got  to  spend  this 
money,"  he  said,  "and  the  sooner  you  set  about  it  the 
better.  AVhatever  may  be  your  ideas  about  the  prin- 
cipal, you  are  bound  to  spend  at  least  every  penny  of  the 
income." 

The  sad-hearted  man  stared  at  the  curate. 

"  How  is  a  man  to  do  anything  whom  God  has  for- 
saken ?"  he  said. 

"  If  he  had  forsaken  you,  for  as  dreary  work  as  it  would 
he,  you  would  have  to  try  to  do  your  duty  notwithstand- 
ing. But  he  has  not  forsaken  you.  He  has  given  you 
a  very  sharp  lesson,  I  grant,  and  as  such  you  must  take  it, 
but  that  is  the  very  opposite  of  forsaking  you.  He  has 
let  you  know  what  it  is  not  to  trust  in  him,  and  what  it 
would  be  to  have  money  that  did  not  come  from  his 
hand.  You  did  not  conquer  in  the  fight  with  Mammon 
when  you  were  poor,  and  God  has  given  you  another 
chance :  he  expects  you  to  get  the  better  of  him  now 
you  are  rich.     If  God  had  forsaken  you,  I  should  have 


igo  PAUL  FABER. 

found  you  strutting  about,  and  glorying  over  imagined 
enemies." 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  is  the  mind  of  God  towards 
me  ?"  cried  the  poor  man,  starting  half  up  in  bed.  "  Do 
you  think  so  ?"  he  repeated,  staring  at  the  curate  almost 
as  wildly  as  at  first,  but  with  a  different  expression. 

"  I  do,"  said  Wingfold  ;  "  and  it  will  be  a  bad  job  indeed 
if  you  fail  in  both  trials.  But  that  I  am  sure  you  will  not. 
It  is  your  business  now  to  get  this  money  into  your  hands 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  proceed  to  spend  it." 

"Would  there  be  any  harm  in  ordering  a  few  things 
from  the  tradespeople  ?"  asked  Dorothy. 

"  How  should  there  be  ?''  returned  Wingfold. 

"  Because,  you  see,"  answered  Dorothy,  "we  can't  be 
sure  of  a  bird  in  the  bush." 

"  Can  you  be  sure  of  it  in  your  hands  ?  It  may  spread 
its  wings  when  you  least  expect  it. — But  Helen  will 
be  delighted  to  take  the  risk — up  to  a  few  hundreds,"  he 
added  laughing. 

"  Somebody  may  dispute  the  will :  they  do  some- 
times," said  Dorothy. 

"  They  do  very  often,"  answered  Wingfold.  "  It  does 
not  look  likely  in  the  present  case ;  but  our  trust  must 
be  neither  in  the  will  nor  in  the  fortune,  but  in  the  living 
God.  You  have  to  get  all  the  good  out  of  this  money 
you  can.  If  you  will  walk  over  to  the  rectory  with 
me  now,  while  your  father  gets  up,  we  will  carry  the 
good  news  to  my  wife,  and  she  Avill  lend  you  what 
money  you  like,  so  that  you  need  order  nothing  without 
paying  for  it." 

"  Please  ask  her  not  to  tell  anybody,"  said  ]\Ir.  Drake. 
"  I  shouldn't  like  it  talked  about  before  I  understand  it 
myself." 

"You  arc  quite  right.  If  I  were  you  I  would  tell 
nobody  yet  but  Mr.  Drew.  He  is  a  right  man,  and  will 
help  you  to  bear  your  good  fortune.  I  have  always 
found  good  fortune  harder  to  bear  than  bad." 

Dorotliy  ran  to  put  her  bonnet  on.     The  curate  wen^" 


THE  MINISTER'S  BEDROOM.  191 

back  to  the  bedside.      Mr.  Drake  had  again  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall. 

"  Sixty  years  of  age  !"  he  was  murmuring  to  himself. 

"Mr.  Drake,"  said  Wingfold,  "so  long  as  you  bury 
yourself  with  the  centipedes  in  your  own  cellar,  instead 
ot  going  out  into  God's  world,  you  are  tempting  Satan 
and  Mammon  together  to  come  and  tempt  you.  "Worship 
the  God  who  made  the  heaven  and  the  earth,  and  the  sea 
and  the  mines  of  iron  and  gold,  by  doing  his  will  in  the 
heart  of  them.  Don't  worship  the  poor  picture  of  him 
you  have  got  hanging  up  in  your  closet ; — worship  the 
living  power  beyond  your  ken.  Be  strong  in  hini  whose 
is  your  strength,  and  all  strength.  Help  him  in  his  work 
with  his  own.  Give  life  to  his  gold.  Rub  the  canker  off 
it,  by  sending  it  from  hand  to  hand.  You  must  rise  and 
bestir  yourself  I  will  come  and  see  you  again  to-morrow. 
Good-bye  for  the  present." 

He  turned  away  and  walked  from  the  room.  But  his 
hand  had  scarcely  left  the  lock,  wlien  he  heard  the  minister 
alight  from  his  bed  upon  the  floor. 

"  He'll  do  !"  said  the  curate  to  himself,  and  w^alked 
down  the  stair. 

When  he  got  home,  he  left  Dorothy  with  his  wife,  and 
going  to  his  study,  wrote  the  following  verses,  which  had 
grown  in  his  mind  as  he  walked  silent  beside  her : — 

WHAT  MAN  IS  THERE  OF  YOU  ? 

The  homely  words,  how  often  read  ! 

How  seldom  fully  known  ! 
*'  Which  father  of  you,  asked  for  bread, 

Would  give  his  son  a  stone  ?" 

How  oft  has  bitter  tear  been  shed, 

And  heaved  how  many  a  groan, 
Because  thou  wouldst  not  give  for  bread 

The  thing  that  was  a  stone  ! 

How  oft  the  child  thou  wouldst  have  fed, 

Thy  gift  away  has  thrown  ! 
He  prayed,  thou  heardst,  and  gav'st  the  bread  : 

He  cried,  it  is  a  stone  ! 


192  PAUL  FABER. 

Lord,  if  I  ask  in  doubt  and  dread 

Lest  I  be  left  to  moan  — 
I  am  the  man  who,  asked  for  bread, 

Would  give  his  son  a  stone. 

As  Dorothy  returned  from  the  rectory,  where  Helen 
had  made  her  happier  than  all  the  money  by  the  kind 
words  she  said  to  her,  she  stopped  at  Mr.  Jones's  shop, 
and  bought  of  him  a  bit  of  loin  of  mutton. 

"  Shan't  I  put  it  down,  miss  ?"  he  suggested,  seeing  her 
takeout  her  purse. — Helen  had  just  given  her  the  purse  : 
they  had  had  great  fun,  with  both  tears  and  laughter,  over  it. 

"  I  would  rather  not — thank  you  very  much," she  replied 
with  a  smile. 

He  gave  her  a  kind,  searching  glance,  and  took  the 
money. 

That  day  Juliet  dined  with  them.  When  the  joint 
appeared,  Amanda,  who  had  been  in  the  kitchen  the 
greater  part  of  the  morning,  clapped  her  hands  as  at  sight 
of  an  old  acquaintance. 

"  Dere  it  comes  !  dere  it  comes  !"  she  cried. 

But  the  minister's  grace  was  a  little  longer  than  she 
liked,  for  he  was  trying  hard  to  feel  grateful.  I  tliink 
some  people  mistake  pleasure  and  satisfaction  for  thank- 
fulness :  Mr.  Drake  was  not  so  to  be  taken  in.  Ere  long, 
however,  he  found  them  a  good  soil  for  thankfulness  to 
grow  in. — So  Amanda  fidgeted  not  a  little,  and  the  moment 
the  grace  was  over — 

"  Now  'en  !  now  'en  !"  she  almost  screamed,  her  eyes 
sparkling  with  delight.  "  Tss  is  dinner  ! — 'Ou  don't  have 
dinner  every  day.  Miss  Mellydif !" 

"  Be  quiet,  Ducky,"  said  her  aunt,  as  she  called  her. 
"  You  mustn't  make  any  remarks." 

"  Ducky  ain't  makin'  no  marks,"  returned  the  child, 
looking  anxiously  at  the  table-cloth,  and  was  quiet,  but 
not  for  long. 

"  Lisbef  say  surely  papa's  sip  come  home  wif  'e  nice 
dinner  !"  she  said  next. 

"  No,  my  ducky,"  said  Mr.  Drake ;  *'  it  was  God's  ship 
that  came  with  it." 


THE  MINISTER'S  BEDROOM.  I93 

"  Doo(i  sip  !"  said  the  child. 

"'  It  will  come  one  day  and  another,  and  carry  us  all 
home,"  said  the  minister. 

"  Where  Ducky's  yeal  own  papa  and  mamma  yive  in  a 
big  house,  papa  ?"  asked  Amanda,  more  seriously. 

"  I  will  tell  you  more  about  it  when  you  are  older," 
said  Mr.  Drake.  "  Now  let  us  eat  the  dinner  God  has 
sent  us." 

He  was  evidently  far  hapiner  already,  though  his 
daughter  could  see  that  every  now  and  then  his  thoughts 
were  away  :  she  hoped  they  were  thanking  God.  Before 
dinner  was  over,  he  was  talking  quite  cheerfully,  drawing 
largely  from  his  stores  both  of  reading  and  experience. 
After  the  child  was  gone,  they  told  Juliet  of  their  good 
fortune.  She  congratulated  them  heartily,  then  looked  a 
little  grave,  and  said — 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  me  to  go?" 

"  What !"  said  Mr.  Drake ;  "  does  your  friendship  go 
no  farther  than  that  ?  Having  helped  us  so  much  in 
adversity,  will  you  forsake  us  the  moment  prosperity  looks 
m  at  the  window  ?" 

Juliet  gave  one  glance  at  Dorothy,  smiled,  and  said  no 
more.  For  Dorothy,  she  was  already  building  a  castle 
for  JuUet — busily. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


JULIETS     CHARIUER. 


jFTER  tea,  Mr.  Drake  and  Dorothy  went  out 

for  a  walk  together — a  thing  they  had  not 

once  done  smce  the  church-meetingof  acrid 

memory  in  which  had  been  decreed  the 

close  of  the  minister's  activity,  at  least  in 

Glaston.     It  was  a  lovely  June  twilight; 

the  bats  were  flitting  about   like   the    children   of  the 

gloamin',  and  the  lamps  of  the  laburnuna  and  lilac  hung 

dusky  among  the  trees  of  Osterfield  Park. 

Juliet,  left  all  but  alone  in  the  house,  sat  at  her  window, 
reading.  Her  room  was  on  the  first  floor,  but  the  dining- 
room  beneath  it  was  of  low  i^itch,  and  at  the  lane-door 
there  were  two  steps  down  into  the  house,  so  that  her 
window  was  at  no  great  height  above  the  lane.  It  was 
open,  but  there  was  little  to  be  seen  from  it,  for  imme- 
diately opposite  rose  a  high  old  garden-wall,  hiding  exevy 
thing  with  its  gray  bulk,  lovclily  blotted  with  lichens 
and  mosS;  brown  and  green  and  gold,  except  the  wall- 
flowers and  Stone-crop  that  grew  on  its  coping,  and  a 
running  plant  that  hung  down  over  it,  like  a  long  fringe 
worn  thin.  Had  she  put  her  head  out  of  the  window,  she 
would  have  seen  in  the  one  direction  a  cow-house,  and 
in  the  other  the  tall  narrow  iron  gate  of  the  garden — ■ 


JULIETS  CHAMBER.  195 

and  that  was  all.  The  twilight  deepened  as  she  read,  until 
the  words  before  her  began  to  play  hide  and  seek  ;  they 
got  worse  and  worse,  until  she  was  tired  of  catching  at 
them  ;  and  when  at  last  she  stopped  for  a  moment,  they 
were  all  gone  like  a  troop  of  fairies,  and  her  reading  was 
ended.  She  closed  the  book,  and  was  soon  dreaming 
awake  ;  and  the  twilight  world  was  the  globe  in  which  the 
dream-fishes  came  and  went — now  swelling  up  strange  and 
near,  now  sinking  away  into  the  curious  distance. 

Her  mood  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  hoofs,  which 
she  almost  immediately  recognized  as  those  of  the 
doctor's  red  horse — great  hoofs  falling  at  the  end  of  long 
straight-flung  steps.  Her  heart  began  to  beat  violently, 
and  confident  in  the  protection  of  the  gathering  night, 
she  rose  and  looked  cautiously  out  towards  the  side 
on  which  was  the  approach.  In  a  few  moments,  round  the 
farthest  visible  corner,  and  past  the  gate  in  the  garden- 
wall,  swung  a  huge  shadowy  form — gigantic  in  the  dusk. 
She  drew  back  her  head,  but  ere  she  could  shape  her 
mind  to  retreat  from  the  window,  the  solid  gloom 
hurled  itself  thundering  past,  and  she  stood  trembling 
and  lonely,  with  the  ebb  of  Ruber's  paces  in  her  ears  — 
and  in  her  hand  a  letter.  In  a  minute  she  came  to  her- 
self, closed  her  window,  drew  down  the  blind,  lit  a  candle, 
set  it  on  the  window-sill,  and  opened  the  letter.  It  con- 
tained these  verses,  and  nothing  more  : — 

My  morning  rose  in  laughter — 

A  gold  and  azure  day. 
Dull  clouds  came  trooping  after, 

Livid,  and  sullen  gray. 

At  noon,  the  rain  did  batter, 

And  it  thundered  like  a  hell : 
I  sighed,  It  is  no  matter, 

At  night  I  shall  sleep  as  well. 

But  I  longed  with  a  madness  tender 

For  an  evening  like  the  morn, 
That  my  day  might  die  in  splendour, 

Not  folded  in  mist  forlorn — 


1 9b  PAUL  FABER. 

Die  like  a  tone  elysian, 

Liks  a  bee  in  a  cactus-flower. 
Like  a  day-siu-prised  vision, 

Like  a  wind  in  a  summer  shower. 

Through  the  vaulted  clouds  about  me 

Broke  trembling  an  azure  space  : 
Was  it  a  dream  to  flout  me — 

Or  was  it  a  peifect  face  ? 

The  sky  and  the  face  together 

Are  gone,  and  the  wind  blows  fell. 
Eut  what  matters  a  dream  or  the  weather  ? 

At  night  it  will  all  be  well. 

For  the  day  of  life  and  labour, 

Of  ecstasy  and  pain, 
Is  only  a  beaten  tabor, 

And  I  shall  not  dream  again. 

But  as  the  old  Night  steals  o'er  me, 

Deepening  till  all  is  dead, 
I  shall  see  thee  still  before  me 

Stand  with  averted  head. 

And  I  shall  think.  Ah  sorrow  ! 

The  might  that  never  was  may! 
The  night  that  has  no  morrow  ! 

A.nd  the  sunset  all  in  gi-ay  ! 

Juliet  laid  her  head  on  her  hands  and  wept. 

"  Why  should  I  not  let  him  have  his  rosy  sunset  ?"  she 
thought.  "  It  is  all  he  hopes  for — cares  for,  I  think — 
poor  fellow  !  Am  I  not  good  enough  to  give  him  that  ? 
What  does  it  matter  about  me,  if  it  is  all  but  a  vision 
that  flits  between  heaven  and  earth,  and  makes  a  passing 
shadow  on  human  brain  and  nerves  ?• — a  tale  that  is  tell- 
ing— then  a  tale  that  is  told  !  Much  the  good  people 
make  out  of  their  better  faith  !  Should  /be  troubled  to 
learn  that  it  was  indeed  a  lasting  sleep  ?  If  I  were  dead, 
and  found  myself  waking,  should  I  want  to  rise,  or  to  go 
to  sleej)  again  ?  Why  should  not  I  too  dare  to  hope  for 
an  endless  rest?     Where  would  be  the  wrong  to  any?    If 


JULIETS  CHAMBER.  197 

there  be  a  God,  he  will  have  but  to  wake  me  to  punish 
me  hard  enough.  Why  should  I  not  hope  at  least  for 
such  a  lovely  thing  ?  Can  any  one  help  desiring  peace  ? 
Oh,  to  sleep,  and  sleep,  and  wake  no  more  for  ever  and 
ever  !  I  v^'ould  not  hasten  the  sleep  ;  the  end  will  surely 
come,  and  why  should  we  not  enjoy  the  dream  a  little 
longer — at  least  while  it  is  a  good  dream,  and  the  tossing 
has  not  begun?  There  would  always  be  a  time.  Why 
\:-ake  before  our  time  out  of  the  day  into  the  dark 
nothing  ?  I  should  always  want  to  see  what  to-morrow 
and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow  would  bring— that  is,  so 
long  as  he  loved  ine.  He  is  noble,  and  sad,  and  beau- 
tiful, and  gracious  ! — but  would  he — could  he  love  me  to 
the  end— even  if— ?— Why  should  we  not  make  the  best 
of  what  we  have?  Why  should  we  not  make  life  as 
happy  to  ourselves  and  to  others  as  we  can — however 
worthless,  however  arrant  a  cheat  it  may  be  ?  Even  if 
there  be  no  such  thing  as  love,  if  it  be  all  but  a  lovely 
vanity,  a  bubble-play  of  colour,  why  not  let  the  bubble- 
globe  swell,  and  the  tide  of  its  ocean  of  colour  flow  and 
rush  and  mingle  and  change  ?  Will  it  not  break  at  last, 
and  the  last  come  soon  enough,  when  of  all  the  glory  is 
left  but  a  tear  on  the  grass  ?  When  we  dream  a  pleasant 
dream,  and  know  it  is  but  a  dream,  we  will  to  dream  on, 
and  quiet  our  minds  that  it  may  not  be  scared  and  flee  : 
why  should  we  not  yield  to  the  stronger  dream,  that 
it  may  last  yet  another  sweet,  beguiling  moment  ? 
Why  should  he  not  love  me— kiss  me?  Why  should 
we  not  be  sad  together,  that  we  are  not  and  can- 
not be  the  real  man  and  woman  we  would— that 
we  are  but  the  forms  of  a  dream — the  fleeting  sha- 
dows of  the  night  of  Nature?— mourn  together  that 
the  meddlesome  hand  of  fate  should  have  roused  us  to 
consciousness  and  aspiration  so  long  before  the  maturity 
of  our  powers  that  we  are  but  a  laughter — no — a  scorn 
and  a  weeping  to  ourselves?  We  could  at  least  sympa- 
thize with  each  other  in  our  common  misery — bear  with 
its  weaknesses,  comfort  its  regrets,  hide  its  mortifications, 


igS  PAUL  FABER. 

cherish  its  poor  joys,  and  smooth  the  way  down  the 
steepening  slope  to  the  grave  !  Then,  if  in  the  decrees 
of  bhnd  fate,  there  should  be  a  slow,  dull  procession 
towards  perfection,  if  indeed  some  human  God  be  on 
the  way  to  be  born,  it  would  be  grand,  although  we  should 
know  nothing  of  it,  to  have  done  our  part  fearless  and 
hopeless,  to  have  lived  and  died  that  the  triumphant 
Sorrow  might  sit  throned  on  the  ever  dying  heart  of  the 
universe.  But  never,  never  would  I  have  chosen  to  live 
for  that !— Yes,  one  might  choose  to  be  born,  if  there 
were  suffering  one  might  live  or  die  to  soften,  to  cure  ! 
That  would  be  to  be  like  Paul  Faber.  To  will  to  be 
born  for  that  would  be  grand  indeed  !" 

In  paths  of  thought  like  these  her  mind  wandered,  her 
head  lying  upon  her  arms  on  the  old-fashioned,  wide- 
spread window-sill.  At  length,  weary  with  emotion  and 
weeping,  she  fell  fast  asleep,  and  slept  for  some  time. 

The  house  was  very  still.  INIr.  Drake  and  Dorodiy 
were  in  no  haste  to  return.  Amanda  was  asleep,  and 
Lisbeth  was  in  the  kitchen— perhaps  also  asleep. 

Juliet  woke  with  a  great  start.  Arms  Avere  around  her 
from  behind,  lifting  her  from  her  half  prone  position  of 
sorrowful  rest.  With  a  terrified  cry,  she  strove  to  free 
herself 

"  Juliet,  my  love  !  my  heart !  be  still,  and  let  me  speak, ' 
said  Faber.  His  voice  trembled  as  if  full  of  tears.  "1 
can  bear  this  no  longer.  You  are  my  f:ite.  I  never  lived 
till  I  knew  you.  I  shall  cease  to  live  when  1  know  for 
certain  that  you  turn  from  me." 

Juliet  was  like  one  half-drowned,  just  lifted  from  the 
water,  struggling  to  beat  it  away  from  eyes  and  ears  and 
mouth. 

"  Pray  leave  me,  Mr.  Faber,"  she  cried,  half-terrified, 
half-bewildered,  as  she  rose  and  turned  towards  him.  But 
while  she  pushed  him  away  with  one  hand,  she  uncon- 
sciously clasped  his  arm  tight  \\ith  the  other.  "  You  have 
no  right  to  come  into  my  room,  and  surprise  me — startle 
me  so  1     Do  go  away.     I  will  come  to  you." 


JULIET'S  CHAMBER.  199 

"Pardon,  pardon,  my  angel  !  Do  not  speak  so  loud," 
.  he  said,  foiling  on  his  knees,  and  clasping  hers. 

"  Do  go  away,"  persisted  Juliet,  trying  to  remove  his 
grasp.  "  What  will  they  tliink  if  they  find  us — you  here  ? 
They  know  I  am  perfectly  Avell." 

"  You  drive  me  to  liberties  that  make  me  tremble, 
Tuliet.  Everywhere  you  avoid  me.  You  arc  never  to  be 
seen  without  some  hateful  protector.  Ages  ago  I  put  up 
a  prayer  to  you — one  of  life  or  death  to  me,  and,  like  the 
God  you  believe  in,  you  have  left  it  unanswered.  You 
have  no  pity  on  the  sufferings  you  cause  me  !  If  your 
God  be  cruel,  why  should  you  be  cruel  too  ?  Is  not  one 
tormentor  enough  in  your  universe  ?  If  there  be  a  future, 
let  us  go  on  together  to  find  it.  If  there  be  not,  let  us 
yet  enjoy  what  of  life  may  be  enjoyed.     My  past  is  a  sad 

one, " 

Juliet  shuddered. 

"  Ah,  my  beautiful,  you  too  have  suffered  !"  he  went 
on.  "  Let  us  be  angels  of  mercy  to  each  other,  each 
helping  the  other  to  forget !  My  griefs  I  should  count 
worthless  if  I  might  but  erase  yours." 

"  I  would  I  could  say  the  same  !"  said  Juliet,  but  only 
in  her  heart. 

"  Whatever  they  may  have  been,"  he  continued,  "  my 
highest  ambition  shall  be  to  make  you  forget  them. 
\Ve  will  love  like  beings  whose  only  eternity  is  the 
moment.  Come  with  me,  Juliet ;  we  will  go  down  into 
the  last  darkness  together,  loving  each  other — and  then 
peace.  At  least  there  is  no  eternal  hate  in  my  poor,  ice- 
cold  religion,  as  there  is  in  yours.  I  am  not  suftering  alone, 
Juliet.  All  whom  it  is  my  work  to  relieve,  are  sufter- 
ing from  your  unkindness.  For  a  time  I  prided  myself 
that  I  gave  every  one  of  them  as  full  attention  as  before, 
but  I  cannot  keep  it  up.  I  am  defeated.  My  brain 
seems  deserting  me.  I  mistake  symptoms,  forget  cases, 
confound  medicines,  fall  into  incredible  blunders.  My 
hand  trembles,  my  judgment  wavers,  my  will  is  undecided 
Juliet,  you  are  ruining  me." 


200  PAUL  FABER. 

"  He  snved  my  life,"  said  Juliet  to  herself,  "  and  that 
it  is  which  has  brought  him  to  this.  He  has  a  claim 
to  me.  I  am  his  property.  He  found  me  a  castaway  on 
the  shore  of  Death,  and  gave  me  his  life  to  live  with. 
He  must  not  sufter  where  I  can  prevent  it." — She  was  on 
the  point  of  yielding. 

The  same  moment  she  heard  a  step  in  the  lane 
approaching  the  door. 

"  If  you  love  me,  do  go  now,  dear  Mr.  Faber,"  she 
said.  "  I  will  see  you  again.  Do  not  urge  me  farther 
to-night. — Ah,  I  wish  !  I  wish  !"  she  added,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  and  ceased. 

The  steps  came  up  to  the  door.  There  came  a  knock 
at  it.  They  heard  Lisbeth  go  to  open  it.  Faber 
rose. 

" Go  into  the  drawing-room,"  said  Juliet.  "Lisbeth 
may  be  coming  to  fetch  me  ;  she  must  not  see  you 
here." 

He  obeyed.  Without  a  word  he  left  the  chamber,  and 
went  into  the  drawing-room.  He  had  been  hardly  a 
moment  there,  when  Wingfold  entered.  It  was  almost 
dark,  but  the  doctor  stood  against  the  window,  and  the 
curate  knew  him. 

"  Ah,  Faber !"  he  said,  "  it  is  long  since  I  saw  you. 
But  each  has  been  about  his  work,  I  suppose,  and  there 
could  not  be  a  better  reason." 

''  Under  different  masters,  then,"  returned  Faber,  a  little 
out  of  temper. 

"  I  don't  exactly  think  so.  All  good  work  is  done 
under  the  same  master." 

"  Pooh  !  pooh  !" 

"  Who  is  your  master,  then  ?" 

"  My  conscience.     Who  is  yours?" 

"  The  author  of  my  conscience." 

"A  legendary  personage  !" 

"  One  who  is  every  day  making  my  conscience  harder 
upon  me.  Until  I  believed  in  him,  my  conscience  was 
dull  and  stupid— not  half  awake,  indeed." 


JULIET'S  CHAM  HER.  20I 

"  Oh  !  I  see  !  You  mean  my  conscience  is  dull  and 
stupid." 

"  I  do  not.  But  if  you  were  once  lighted  up  with  the 
light  of  the  world,  you  would  pass  just  such  a  judgment 
on  yourself.  I  can't  think  you  so  different  from  myself, 
as  that  that  shouldn't  be  the  case  ;  though  most  heartily 
I  grant  you  do  your  work  ten  times  better  than  I  did. 
And  all  the  time  I  thought  myself  an  honest  man  !  I 
wasn't.  A  man  may  honestly  think  himself  honest, 
and  a  fresh  week's  experience  make  him  doubt  it  alto- 
gether.    I  sorely  want  a  God  to  make  me  honest." 

Here  Juhet  entered  the  room,  greeted  Mr.  \Vingrold, 
and  then  shook  hands  with  Faber.  He  was  glad  the 
room  was  dark. 

"What  do  you  think,  Miss  Meredith — is  a  man's  con- 
science enough  for  his  guidance  ?"  said  the  curate. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  a  man's  conscience," 
answered  Juliet. 

"A  woman's  then?"  said  the  curate. 

"  What  else  has  she  got  ?"  returned  Juliet. 

The  doctor  was  inwardly  cursing  the  curate  for  talking 
shop.  Only,  if  a  man  knows  nothing  so  good,  so  beau- 
tiful, so  necessary,  as  the  things  in  his  shop,  what  else 
ought  he  to  talk — especially  if  he  is  ready  to  give  them 
witliout  money  and  without  price  ?  The  doctor  would 
have  done  better  to  talk  shop  too. 

"  Of  course  he  has  nothing  else,"  answered  the  curate  ; 
"  and  if  he  had,  lie  must  follow  his  conscience  all  the 
same." 

"  There  you  are,  Wingfold ! — always  talking  paradoxes !" 
said  Faber. 

"  Why,  man  !  you  may  only  have  a  blundering  boy  to 
guide  you,  but  if  he  is  your  only  guide,  you  must  follow 
him.     You  don't  therefore  call  him  a  sufrtcient  guide  !" 

"  ^Vhat  a  logomachist  you  are  !  If  it  is  a  horn  lantern 
you've  got,  you  needn't  go  mocking  at  it." 

"  The  lantern  is  not  the  light.  Perhaps  you  cannot 
change  your  horn  for  glass,  but  what  if  you  could  better 


202  PAUL  FABER. 

the  light?  Suppose  the  boy's  father  knew  all  about  the 
country,  but  you  never  thought  it  worth  while  to  send  the 
lad  to  him  for  instructions?" 

"  Suppose  I  didn't  believe  he  had  a  father?  Suppose 
he  told  me  he  hadn't  ?" 

"Some  men  would  call  out  to  know  if  there  was  any- 
body in  the  house  to  give  the  boy  a  useful  hint." 

*'  Oh  bother  !     I'm  quite  content  with  my  fellow." 

"  Well,  for  my  part  I  should  count  my  conscience, 
were  it  ten  times  better  than  it  is,  poor  company  on  any 
journey.  Nothing  less  than  the  living  Truth  ever  with 
me  can  make  existence  a  peace  to  me. — That's  the  joy  of 
the  Holy  Ghost,  INIiss  Meredith. — What  if  you  should 
find  one  day,  Faber,  that,  of  all  facts,  the  thing  you 
had  been  so  coolly  refusing  was  the  most  precious  and 
awful  ?" 

Faber  had  had  more  than  enough  of  it.  There  was 
but  one  thing  precious  to  him  :  Juliet  was  the  perfect 
flower  of  nature,  the  apex  of  law,  the  last  presentment  of 
evolution,  the  final  reason  of  things  !  The  very  soul  of 
the  world  stood  there  in  the  dusk,  and  there  also  stood 
the  foolish  curate,  whirling  his  little  vortex  of  dust  and 
ashes  between  him  and  her  ! 

"  It  comes  to  this,"  said  Faber  ;  "  what  you  say  moves 
nothing  in  me.  I  am  aware  of  no  need,  no  want  of  that 
being  of  whom  you  speak.  Surely  if  in  him  I  did  live 
and  move  and  have  my  being,  as  some  old  heathen  taught 
your  Saul  of  Tarsus,  I  should  in  one  mode  or  another  be 
a\\-are  of  him !" 

While  he  spoke,  Mr.  Drake  and  Dorothy  had  come 
into  the  room.     They  stood  silent. 

"  That  is  a  weighty  word,"  said  Wingfold.  "  But  what 
if  you  feel  his  presence  every  moment,  only  do  not  recog- 
nize it  as  such  ?" 

"  Where  would  be  the  good  of  it  to  me,  then  ?" 

"  The  good  of  it  to  you  might  lie  in  the  blinding._  "\Miat 
if  an)-  further  revelation  to  one  who  did  not  seek  it  would 
but   obstruct  the  knowledge  of  him?     Truly  revealed, 


JULIETS  CHAMBER.  203 

the  word  would  be  read  untruly— even  as  The  Word  has 
been  read  by  many  in  all  ages.  Only  the  pure  in  heart, 
we  are  told,  shall  see  him.  The  man  who,  made  by  him, 
does  not  desire  him — how  should  he  know  him  ?" 

"  Why  don't  I  desire  him,  then? — I  don't." 

"  That  is  for  you  to  find  out." 

"I  do  what  I  know  to  be  right :  even  on  your  tlieory 
I  ought  to  get  on,"  said  Faber,  turning  fi-om  him  with  a 
laugh. 

"  I  think  so  too,"  replied  Wingfold.  "  Go  on,  and 
prosper.  Only,  if  there  be  untruth  in  you  alongside  of 
the  truth, — ?  It  might  be,  and  you  not  awake  to  it._  It  is 
marvellous  what  things  can  co-e.\ist  in  a  human  mind." 

"  In  that  case,  why  should  not  your  God  help  me  ?" 

"Why  not?  I  think  he  will.  Lut  it  wwy have  to  be  in 
a  way  you  will  not  like." 

"  Well,  well !  good  night.  Talk  is  but  talk,  whatever 
be  the  subject  of  it. — I  beg  j^our  pardon,"  he  added, 
shaking  hands  \\dth  the  minister  and  his  daughter ;  "  I 
did  not  see  you  come  in.     Good  night." 

"  I  won't  allow  that  talk  is  only  talk,  Faber,"  Wingfold 
called  after  him  with  a  friendly  laugh.  Then  turning  to 
Mr.  Drake,  "  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "  for  treating  you 
with  so  much  confidence.  I  saw  you  come  in,  but 
believed  you  would  rather  have  us  end  our  talk  than 
break  it  oft"." 

"  Certamly.  But  I  can't  help  thinking  you  grant  him 
too  much,  Mr.  Wingfold,"  said  the  minister  seriously. 

"  I  never  find  I  lose  by  giving,  even  in  argument,"  said 
the  curate.  "  Faber  rides  his  hobby  well,  but  the  brute 
is  a  sorry  jade.  He  will  find  one  day  she  has  not  a 
sound  joint  in  her  whole  body." 

The  man  who  is  anxious  to  hold  every  point,  will 
speedily  bring  a  question  to  a  mere  dispute  about  tritles, 
leaving  the  real  matter,  whose  elements  may  appeal  to 
the  godhke  in  every  man,  out  in  the  cold.  Such  a  man, 
having  gained  his  paltry  point,  will  crow  like  the  ban- 
tam he   is,    while   the  other,   who  may  be   the  greater 


204  PAUL  FABER. 

perhaps  the  better  man,  although  in  the  wrong,  is  em- 
bittered by  his  smaUness,  and  turns  away  with  increased 
prejudice.  Human  nature  can  hardly  be  blamed  for  its 
readiness  to  impute  to  the  case  the  shallowness  of  its 
pleader.  Few  men  do  more  harm  than  those  who, 
taking  the  right  side,  dispute  for  personal  victory,  and 
argue,  as  they  are  sure  then  to  do,  ungenerously.  But 
even  genuine  argument  for  the  truth  is  not  preaching 
the  gospel,  neither  is  he  whose  unbelief  is  thus  assailed, 
likely  to  be  brought  thereby  into  any  mood  but  one 
unfit  for  receiving  it.  Argument  should  be  kept  to 
books ;  preachers  ought  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  it 
— at  all  events  in  the  pulpit.  There  let  them  hold  forth 
light,  and  let  him  who  will,  receive  it,  and  him  who  will 
not,  forbear.  God  alone  can  convince,  and  till  the  full 
time  is  come  for  the  birth  of  the  truth  in  a  soul,  the  words 
of  even  the  Lord  himself  are  not  there  potent. 

"  The  man  irritates  me,  I  confess,"  said  Mr.  Drake. 
"  I  do  not  say  he  is  self-satisfied,  but  he  is  very  self- 
suflicient." 

"  He  is  such  a  good  fellow,"  said  Wingfold,  "  that  I 
think  God  will  not  let  him  go  on  like  this  very  long.  I 
think  we  shall  live  to  see  a  change  upon  him.  But  much 
as  I  esteem  and  love  the  man,  I  cannot  help  a  suspicion 
that  he  has  a  great  lump  of  pride  somewhere  about  him, 
which  has  not  a  little  to  do  with  his  denials." 

Juliet's  blood  seemed  seething  in  her  veins  as  slie 
heard  her  lover  thus  weighed,  and  talked  over  ;  and  there- 
with came  the  first  rift  of  a  threatened  breach  betwixt  her 
heart  and  the  friends  who  had  been  so  good  to  her.  He 
had  done  far  more  for  her  than  any  of  them,  and  mere 
loyalty  seemed  to  call  upon  her  to  defend  him ;  but 
slie  did  not  know  how,  and,  dissatisfied  witli  herself  as 
well  as  indignant  with  them,  she  mainUiiiied  an  angry 
silence. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


OSTERFIELD      PARK. 

jcJr^T  was  a  long  time  since  Mr.  Drake  and 
~^~"^'  Dorotliy  had  had  such  a  talk  together,  or 
had  spent  such  a  pleasant  evening  as  tliat 
on  which  they  went  into  Osterfield  Park, 
to  be  alone  with  the  knowledge  of  their 
changed  fortunes.      The  anxiety  of  each, 

differing  so  greatly  from  that  of  the  other,  had  tended  to 

shut  up  each  in  loneliness  beyond  the  hearing  of  the  other ; 

so  that,  while  there  was  no  breach  in  their  love,  it  was  yet 

in  danger  of  having  long  to  endure 

"an  expansion, 
Like  gold  to  airy  thinness  beat." 

But  this  evening  their  souls  rushed  together.  The  father's 
anxiety  was  chietly  elevated;  the  daughter's  remained  much 
what  it  was  before  ;  yet  these  anxieties  no  longer  availed 
to  keep  them  apart. 

Each  relation  of  life  has  its  peculiar  beauty  of  holiness  ; 
but  that  beauty  is  the  expression  of  its  essential  truth, 
and  the  essence  itself  is  so  strong  that  it  bestows  upon 
its  embodiment  even  the  power  of  partial  metamorphosis 
with  all  other  vital  relations.  How  many  daughters  have 
in  the  devotion  of  their  tenderness,  become  as  mothers 
to  their  own  fathers  !     Who  has  not  known  some  sister 


2c6  PAUL  FABER 

more  of  a  wife  to  a  man  than  she  for  whose  salce  he 
neglected  her?  But  it  will  take  the  loves  of  all  the  rela- 
tions of  life  gathered  in  one,  to  shadow  the  love  which,  in 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  is  recognized  as  due  to  each 
from  each  human  being  per  se.  It  is  for  the  sake  of  the 
essential  human,  that  all  human  relations  and  all  forms 
of  tliem  exist — that  we  may  learn  what  it  is,  and  become 
capable  of  loving  it  aright. 

Dorothy  would  now  liave  been  as  a  mother  to  her 
father,  had  she  had  but  a  good  hope,  if  no  more,  of 
finding  her  Father  in  heaven.  She  was  not  at  peace 
enough  to  mother  anybody.  She  had  indeed  a  gi-asp  of 
the  skirt  of  his  robe — only  she  could  not  be  sure  it  was 
not  the  mere  fringe  of  a  cloud  she  held.  Not  the  less 
was  her  father  all  her  care,  and  pride,  and  joy.  Of  his 
faults  she  saw  none :  there  was  enough  of  the  noble  and 
generous  in  him  to  hide  them  from  a  less  partial  beholder 
than  a  daughter.  Tliey  had  never  been  serious  in  com- 
parison with  his  virtues.  I  do  not  mean  that  every  fault 
is  not  so  serious  that  a  man  must  be  willing  to  die  twenty 
deaths  to  get  rid  of  it ;  but  that,  relatively  to  the  getting 
rid  of  it,  a  fault  is  serious  or  not,  in  proportion  to 
the  depths  of  its  root,  rather  than  the  amount  of  its 
foliage.  Neither  can  that  be  the  worst-conditioned  fault, 
the  man's  own  suspicion  of  which  would  make  him 
hang  his  head  in  shame ;  those  are  his  worst  faults 
which  a  man  will  start  up  to  defend  ;  those  are  the  most 
dangerous  moral  diseases  whose  symptoms  are  regarded 
as  the  signs  of  health. 

Like  lovers  they  walked  out  together,  with  eyes  only 
for  each  other,  for  the  good  news  had  made  them  shy — 
through  the  lane,  into  tlie  cross  street,  and  out  into  Pine- 
street,  along  which  tliey  went  westward,  meeting  the 
gaze  of  the  low  sun,  wliich  wrapt  them  round  in  a  veil  of 
light  and  dark,  for  the  light  made  their  eyes  dark,  so  that 
they  seemed  feeling  their  way  out  of  the  light  into  the 
shadow. 

*'  This  is  like  life,"  said  the  pastor,  looking  down  at  the 


OSTERFIELD  PARK.  ±o^ 

precious  face  beside  liim  :  "our  eyes  can  best  see  from 
under  the  shadow  of  aflhctions." 

"  I  would  ratlicr  it  were  from  under  the  shadow  of 
God's  wings,"  repUed  Dorothy  timidly. 

"  So  it  is  !  so  it  is  !  Afllictions  are  but  the  shadow  of 
his  wings,"  said  her  father  eagerly.  "  Keep  there,  my 
child,  and  you  will  never  need  the  afflictions  I  have 
needed.     I  have  been  a  hard  one  to  save." 

But  the  child  thought  within  herself,  "Alas,  father! 
you  have  never  had  any  afflictions  which  you  or  I  eilher 
could  not  bear  tenfold  better  than  what  I  have  to  bear." 
She  was  perhaps  right.  Only  she  did  not  know  that 
when  she  got  through,  all  would  be  transfigured  with  the 
liglit  of  her  resurrection,  just  as  her  father's  poverty  now 
was  in  the  light  of  his  plent3\ 

Little  more  passed  between  them  in  the  street.  All 
the  way  to  the  entrance  of  the  park  they  v/ere  silent. 
There  they  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the  sweet-faced 
little  dwarf-woman  that  opened  the  gate,  and  those  few 
words  set  the  currents  of  their  thoughts  singing  yet  more 
sweetly  as  they  flowed.  They  entered  the  great  park, 
through  the  trees  that  bordered  it,  still  in  silence,  but 
when  they  reached  the  wide  expanse  of  grass,  with  its 
clumps  of  trees  and  thickets,  simultaneously  they  breathed 
a  deep  breath  of  the  sweet  wind,  and  the  fountains  of 
their  deeps  were  broken  up.  The  evening  was  lovely, 
they  wandered  about  long  in  delight,  and  much  was  the 
trustful  converse  they  held.  It  was  getting  dark  before 
they  thought  of  returning. 

The  father  had  l)een  telling  the  daughter  how  he  had 
mourned  and  wept  ^vhcn  his  boys  were-  taken  from  him, 
never  thinking  at  all  of  the  girl  who  was  left  him. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  "  I  would  not  part  with  my 
Dorothy  to  have  them  back  the  finest  boys  iu  the 
world.  What  would  my  old  age  be  without  y6u,  my 
darling  ?" 

Dorothy's  heart  beat  higli.  Surely  tliere  must  be  a 
Father  in  heaven  too  !     They  walked  a  wliile  in  a  great 


2o8  PAUL  FABER. 

silence,  for  the  heart  of  each  was  full.     And  all  the  time 
scarce  an  allusion  had  been  made  to  the  money. 

As  they  returned  they  passed  the  new  house,  at  some 
distance,  on  the  highest  point  in  the  park.  It  stood  un- 
finished, with  all  its  windows  boarded  up. 

"  The  walls  of  that  house,"  said  Mr.  Drake,  "  were 
scarcely  above  ground  when  I  came  to  Glaston.  So  they 
had  been  for  twenty  years,  and  so  they  remained  until,  as 
you  remember,  the  building  was  recommenced  some 
three  or  four  years  ago.  Now,  again,  it  is  forsaken,  and 
only  the  wind  is  at  home  in  it." 

"They  tell  me  the  estate  is  for  sale,"  said  Dorothy. 
"Those  building-lots,  just  where  the  lane  leads  into 
Pine-street,  I  fancy  belong  to  it." 

"  I  Avish,"  returned  her  father,  "  they  would  sell  me 
that  tumble-down  place  in  the  hollow  they  call  the  Old 
House  of  Glaston.  I  shouldn't  mind  paying  a  good 
sum  for  it.  What  a  place  it  would  be  to  live  in  !_  And 
what  a  pleasure  there  would  be  in  the  making  of  it  once 
iiiore  habitable,  and  watching  order  dawn  out  of  neglect !" 

"  It  would  be  delightful,"  responded  Dorothy.  "  When 
I  was  a  child,  it  was  one  of  my  dreams  that  that  house 
was  my  papa's — with  the  wild  garden  and  all  the  fruit,  and 
the  terrible  lake,  and  the  ghost  of  the  lady  that  goes 
about  in  the  sack  she  was  drowned  in.  But  would  you 
really  buy  it,  father,  if  you  could  get  it  ?" 

"  I  think  I  should,  Dorothy,"  answered  Mr.  Drake. 

"  Would  it  not  be  damp — so  much  in  the  hollow  ?  Is 
it  not  the  lowest  spot  in  the  park  ?" 

"  In  the  park — yes ;  for  the  park  drains  into  it.  But 
the  park  lies  high  ;  and  you  must  note  that  the  lake,  deep 
as  it  is— very  deep,  yet  drains  into  the  Lythe.  For  all 
they  say  of  no  bottom  to  it,  I  am  nearly  sure  the  deepest 
part  of' the  lake  is  higher  than  the  surface  of  the  river. 
If  I  am  right,  then  we  could,  if  we  pleased,  empty  the 
lake  altogether— not  that  I  should  like  the  place  nearly 
so  well  without  it.  The  situation  is  charming — and  so 
sheltered  ! — looking  full  south — just  the  place  to  keep 
open  house  in  !" 


OS TER FIELD  PARK.  209 

"  That  is  just  like  you,  father !"  cried  Dorothy,  clap- 
ping her  hands  once  and  holding  them  together  as  she 
looked  up  at  him.  "  The  very  day  you  are  out  of  prison, 
you  want  to  begin  to  keep  an  open  house  ! — Dear 
father !" 

"  Don't  mistake  me,  my  darling.  There  was  a  time, 
long  ago,  after  your  mother  was  good  enough  to  marry 
me,  when — I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it  even  to  you,  my 
child — I  did  enjoy  making  a  show.  I  wanted  people 
to  see,  that,  although  I  was  the  minister  of  a  sect  looked 
down  upon  by  the  wealthy  priests  of  a  worldly  establish- 
ment, I  knew  how  to  live  after  the  world's  foshion  as  well 
as  they.     That  time  you  will  scarcely  recall,  Dorothy  ?" 

"  I  remember  the  coachman's  buttons,"  answered 
Dorothy. 

"  Well !  I  suppose  it  will  be  the  same  with  not  a  few 
times  and  circumstances  we  may  try  to  recall  in  the 
other  world.  Some  insignificant  thing  will  be  all,  and 
fittingly  too,  by  which  we  shall  be  able  to  identify  them. 
— I  liked  to  give  nice  dinner  parties,  and  we  returned  every 
invitation  we  accepted.  I  took  much  pains  to  have  good 
wines,  and  the  right  wines  with  the  right  dishes,  and  all 
that  kind  of  thing — though  I  daresay  I  made  more  blun- 
ders than  I  knew.  Your  mother  had  been  used  to  that 
way  of  living,  and  it  was  no  show  in  her  as  it  was  in  me. 
Then  I  was  proud  of  my  library  and  the  rare  books  in  it. 
I  delighted  in  showing  them,  and  talking  over  the  rarity 
of  this  edition,  the  tallness  of  that  copy,  the  binding,  and 
such-like  follies.  And  where  was  the  wonder,  seeing  I 
served  religion  so  much  in  the  same  way — descanting 
upon  the  needlework  that  clothed  the  king's  daughter, 
instead  of  her  inward  glory  !  I  do  not  say  always,  for  I 
had  my  better  times.  But  how  often  have  I  not  insisted  on 
the  mint  and  anise  and  cummin,  and  forgotten  the  judg- 
ment, mercy,  and  faith  !  How  many  sermons  have  I  not 
preached  about  the  latchets  of  Christ's  shoes,  when  I 
might  have  been  talking  about  Christ  himself !  But  now 
I  do  not  want  a  good  house  to  make  a  show  with  any 

V 


2IO  PAUL  JFABER. 

more  :  I  want  to  be  hospitable.  I  don't  call  giving  din- 
ners being  hospitable.  I  would  have  my  house  a  hiding- 
place  from  the  wind,  a  covert  from  the  tempest.  That 
would  be  to  be  hospitable.  Ah  !  if  your  mother  were 
with  us,  my  child  !  But  you  will  be  my  little  Avife,  as  you 
have  been  lor  so  many  years  now. — God  keeps  open 
house ;  I  should  like  to  keep  open  house. — I  wonder 
does  anybody  ever  preach  hospitality  as  a  Christian 
duty  ?" 

"  I  hope  you  won't  keep  a  butler,  and  set  up  for  grand, 
father,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  Indeed  I  will  not,  my  child.  I  would  not  run  the 
risk  of  postponing  the  pleasure  of  the  Lord  to  that  of 
inhospitable  servants.  I  will  look  to  you  to  keep  a  warm, 
comfortable,  welcoming  house,  and  such  servants  only 
as  shall  be  hospitable  in  heart  and  behaviour,  and  make  no 
difference  betvveen  the  poor  and  the  rich." 

"  I  can't  feel  that  anybody  is  poor,"  said  Dorothy,  after 
a  pause,  "except  those  that  can't  be  sure  of  God. — They 
are  so  poor  !"  she  added. 

"  You  are  right,  my  child  !"  returned  her  father.  "  It 
was  not  my  poverty — it  was  not  being  sure  of  God  that 
crushed  me. — How  long  is  it  since  I  was  poor,  Dorothy?" 

"Two  days,  father — not  two  till  to-morrow  morning." 

"  It  looks  to  me  two  centuries.  My  mind  is  at  ease, 
and  I  have  not  paid  a  debt  yet !  How  vile  of  me  to 
want  the  money  in  my  own  hand,  and  not  be  content  it 
should  be  in  God's  pocket,  to  come  out  just  as  it  was 
wanted !  Alas  !  I  have  more  faith  in  my  uncle's  leavings 
than  in  my  Father's  generosity  !  But  I  must  not  forget 
gratitude  in  shame.  Come,  my  child — no  one  can  see 
us— let  us  kneel  down  here  on  the  grass,  and  pray  to  God 
who  is  in  yon  star  just  twinkling  through  the  gray,  and  in 
my  heart  and  in  yours,  my  child." 

I  Avill  not  give  the  words  of  the  minister's  prayer.  The 
words  are  not  tlie  prayer.  Mr.  Drake's  words  were 
commonplace,  with  much  of  the  conventionality  and 
platitude  of  prayer-meetings.     He  had  always  objected 


OSTER FIELD  PARK.  21 1 

to  tlie  formality  of  the  Prayer-book,  but  the  words  of  his 
own  prayers  without  book  were  far  more  foniial  :  the 
prayer  itself  was  in  the  heart,  not  on  the  lips,  and  was 
far  better  than  the  words.  Lut  poor  Dorothy  heard  only 
the  words,  and  they  did  not  help  her.  They  seemed 
rather  to  freeze  than  revive  her  faith,  making  her  feel  as 
if  she  never  could  believe  in  the  God  of  her  father.  She 
was  too  unhappy  to  reason  well,  or  she  might  have  seen 
that  she  was  not  bound  to  measure  God  by  the  way  her 
father  talked  to  him— that  the  form  of  the  prayer  had  to 
do  with  her  father,  not  immediately  with  God — that  God 
might  be  altogether  adorable,  notwithstanding  the  prayers 
of  all  heathens  and  of  all  saints. 

Their  talk  turned  again  upon  the  Old  House  of 
Glaston. 

"  If  it  be  true,  as  I  have  heard  ever  since  I  came," 
said  Mr.  Drake,  "that  Lord  de  Barre means  to  pull  down 
the  house  and  plough  up  the  garden,  and  if  he  be  so 
short  of  money  as  they  say,  he  might  perhaps  take  a  few 
thousands  for  it.  The  Lythe  bounds  the  estate,  and 
there  makes  a  great  loop,  so  that  a  portion  might  be  cut 
off  by  a  straight  line  from  one  arm  of  the  curve  to  the 
other,  which  would  be  quite  outside  the  park.  I  ^yill  set 
some  inquiry  on  foot.  I  have  wished  for  a  long  time  to 
leave  the  river,  only  we  had  a  lease.  The  Old  House  is 
nothing  like  so  low  as  the  one  we  are  in  now.  Besides, 
as  I  propose,  we  should  have  space  to  build,  if  we  found 
it  desirable,  on  the  level  of  the  park." 

When  they  reached  the  gate  on  their  return,  a  second 
dwarfish  figure,  a  man,  pigeon-chested,  short-necked,  and 
asthmatic— a  strange,  gnome-like  figure,  came  from  the 
lodge  to  open  it.  Everybody  in  Glaston  knew  Polwarth 
the  gatekeeper. 

"  How  is  the  asthma  to-night,  Mr.  Polwarth  ?  "  said  the 
pastor.  He  had  not  yet  got  rid  of  the  tone  in  which  in 
his  young  days  he  had  been  accustomed  to  address  the 
poor  of  his  flock— a  tone  half  familiar,  half  condescending. 


212  PAUL   rAh'IZR. 

To  big  ships  barnacles  will  stick — and  may  add  weeks 
:o  the  length  of  a  voyage  too. 

"  Not  very  bad,  thank  you,  Mr.  Drake  But,  bad  or 
not,  it  is  always  a  Iriendly  devil,"  answered  the  little 
man. 

"  I  am  ast a  little  surprised  to  hear  you  use  such 

express     yourself    so,    Mr.    Polwarth,"    said    the 

minister. 

The  litde  man  laughed  a  quiet,  huskily  melodious, 
gently  merry  laugh. 

"  I  am  not  original  in  the  idea,  and  scarcely  so  in  my 
way  of  expressing  it.  I  am  sorry  you  don't  like  it,  Mr. 
Drake,"  he  said.  "I  found  it  in  the  second  epistle  to 
Uie  Corinthians  last  night,  and  my  heart  has  been  full  of 
it  ever  since.  It  is  surely  no  very  bad  sign  if  the  truth 
should  make  us  merry  at  a  time  !  It  ought  to  do  so,  I 
think,  seeing  merriment  is  one  of  the  lower  forms  of 
bliss." 

"I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  you,  Mr.  Polwarth," 
said  the  minister. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Drake.  I  will  come  to  the 
point.  In  the  passage  I  refer  to,  St.  Paul  says  :  '  There 
was  given  to  me  a  thorn  in  the  ilesh,  the  messenger  of 
Satan  to  bufiet  me,  lest  I  should  be  exalted  above  mea- 
sure :' — am  I  not  right  in  speaking  of  such  a  demon  as  a 
friendly  one  ?     He  was  a  gift  from  God." 

"  I  had  not  observed — that  is,  I  had  not  taken  ]xir- 
ticular  notice  of  the  unusual  combination  of  phrases  in 
the  passage,"  answered  Mr.  Drake.  "  It  is  a  very  re- 
markable one,  certamly.  I  remember  no  other  in  which 
a  messenirer  of  Satan  is  spoken  of  as  being  givm  bv 
God." 

"Clearly,  sir,  St.  Paul  accepted  him  as  something  to 
be  grateful  for,  so  soon  as  his  mission  was  explained 
to  him  ;  and  after  that,  who  is  to  say  what  may  not  be  a 
gift  of  God  !  It  won't  do  to  grumble  at  anything — will 
it,  sir? — when  it  may  so  unexpectedly  turn  out  to  be 
given  to  us  by  God.     I  begin  to  suspect  that  never,  until 


OSTEKFIELD  PARK.  213 

we  see  a  thing  plainly  a  gift  of  God,  can  we  be  sure  that 
we  see  it  right.  I  am  quite  certain  the  most  unpleasant 
things  may  be  such  gifts.  I  should  be  glad  enough  to 
part  witli  this  asthma  of  mine,  if  it  pleased  God  ic 
should  depart  from  me  •  but  would  I  yield  a  fraction  of 
what  it  has  brought  me,  for  the  best  lungs  in  England  ? 
I  trow  not !" 

"  You  are  a  happy  man,  Mr.  Polwarth — if  you  can  say 
that  and  abide  by  it." 

"  I  am  a  happy  man,  sir.  I  don't  know  what  would 
come  of  me  sometimes,  for  very  gladness,  if  I  hadn't 
my  good  friend,  the  asthma-devil,  to  keep  me  down  a 
bit. — Good  night,  sir,"  he  added,  for  Mr.  Drake  was 
already  moving  away. 

He  felt  superior  to  this  man,  set  him  down  as  for- 
ward, did  not  quite  approve  of  him.  Always  ready  to 
judge  involuntarily  from  externals,  he  would  have  been 
shocked  to  discover  how  much  the  deformity  of  the  man, 
which  caused  him  discomfort,  prejudiced  him  also  against 
him.  Then  Polwarth  seldom  went  to  a  place  of  worship, 
and  when  he  did,  went  to  church  !  A  cranky,  visionary, 
talkative  man,  he  was  in  Mr.  Drake's  eyes.  He  set  him 
down  as  one  of  those  mystical  interpreters  of  the  word, 
who  are  always  searching  it  for  strange  things,  whose  very 
insight  leads  them  to  vagary,  blinding  them  to  the  rela- 
tive value  of  things.  It  is  amazing  from  what  a  mere 
fraction  of  fact  concerning  him,  a  man  will  dare  judge  the 
whole  of  another  man.  In  reality,  little  Polwarth  could 
have  carried  big  Drake  to  the  top  of  any  hill  Difficulty, 
up  which,  in  his  spiritual  pilgrimage,  he  had  yet  had  to 
go  panting  and  groaning — and  to  the  top  of  many 
another  besides,  within  sight  even  of  which  the  minister 
would  never  come  in  this  world. 

"  He  is  too  ready  with  his  spiritual  experience,  that 
little  man  ! — too  fond  of  airing  it,"  said  the  minister  to 
his  daughter.  "  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  make  of 
him.  He  is  a  flivourite  with  Mr.  Wingfold ;  but  my 
experience  makes  me  doubtful,     I  suspect  prodigies." 


214  PAUL  FADER. 

Now  Polwarth  was  not  in  the  habit  of  airing  his  reli- 
gious experiences ;  but  all  Glaston  could  see  that  the 
minister  was  in  trouble,  and  he  caught  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity he  had  of  showing  his  sympathy  with  him,  offering 
him  a  share  of  the  comfort  he  had  just  been  receiving 
himself.  He  smiled  at  its  apparent  rejection,  and  closed 
the  gate  softly,  saying  to  himself  that  the  good  man  would 
think  of  it  yet,  he  was  sure. 

Dorothy  took  little  interest  in  Polwarth,  little  therefore 
in  her  father's  judgment  of  him.  But,  better  even  than 
AVingfold  himself,  that  poor  physical  faikire  of  a  man 
could  have  helped  her  from  under  every  gravestone  that 
■was  now  crushing  the  life  out  of  her — not  so  much  from 
superiority  of  intellect — certainly  not  from  superiority  of 
learning,  but  mainly  because  he  was  alive  all  through, 
because  the  life  eternal  pervaded  every  atom  of  his  life, 
every  thought,  every  action.  Door  nor  window  of  his 
being  had  a  lock  to  it !  All  of  them  were  always  on  the 
swing  to  the  wind  that  bloweth  where  it  listeth.  Upon 
occasions  when  most  would  seek  refuge  from  the  dark  sky 
and  gusty  weather  of  trouble,  by  hiding  from  the  mes- 
sengers of  Satan  in  the  deepest  cellar  of  their  hearts,  there 
to  sit  grumbling,  Polwarth  always  went  out  into  the  open 
air.  If  the  wind  was  rough,  there  was  none  the  less  life 
in  it :  the  breath  of  God,  it  was  rough  to  blow  the  faults 
from  him,  genial  to  put  fresh  energy  in  him ;  if  the  rain 
fell,  it  was  the  water  of  cleansing  and  growth.  Misfortune 
he  would  not  know  by  that  name  :  there  was  no  mis  but 
in  himself,  and  that  the  messenger  of  Satan  was  there  to 
buffet.  So  long  as  God  was,  all  was  right.  No  wonder 
the  minister  then  was  incapable  of  measuring  the  gate- 
keeper !  But  Polwarth  was  right  about  him — as  he  went 
home  he  pondered  the  passage  to  which  he  had  referred 
him,  wondering  whether  he  was  to  regard  the  fortune  sent 
him  as  a  messenger  of  Satan  given  to  buffet  him. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


THE      SURGERY     DOOR. 


self  in  beins: 


f^^l^t  HAT  Juliet  loved  Faber  as  she  had  at  one 
f^^.^^'  time  resolved  never  to  love  man,  she 
no  longer  attempted  to  conceal  from 
herself;  but  she  was  far  from  being  pre- 
pared to  confess  the  discovery  to  him. 
His  atheism  she  satisfactorily  justified  her- 
more  ready  to  pity  than  to  blame.  There 
were  difficulties  !  There  were  more  than  difficulties  ! 
Not  a  few  of  them  she  did  not  herself  see  how  to  get 
over  !  If  her  father  had  been  alive,  then  indeed  ! — 
children  must  not  break  their  parents'  hearts.  Eut  if,  as 
appeared  the  most  likely  thing,  that  father,  tenderly  as  she 
had  loved  him,  was  gone  from  her  for  ever,  if  life  was  but 
a  flash  across  from  birth  to  the  grave,  why  should  not 
those  who  loved  make  the  best  of  it  for  each  other  during 
that  one  moment  "  brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  coUied 
night "  ?  They  must  try  to  be  tlie  more  to  one  another, 
that  the  time  was  so  short.  All  that  Faber  had  ever 
pleaded  was  now  blossoming  at  once  in  her  thought.  She 
had  not  a  doubt  that  he  loved  her — as  would  have  been 
enough  once  at  all  events.  A  man  of  men  he  was  ! — 
noble,  unselfisli,  independent,  a  ruler  of  himself,  a  bene- 
factor of  his  race  !  What  right  had  those  belkvers  to 
speak  of  him  as  they  did  !     In  any  personal  question  he 


2i6  PAUL  FABER. 

was  far  their  superior.  That  they  undervahied  him,  came 
all  of  their  narrow  prejudices  !  He  was  not  of  their 
kind,  therefore  he  must  be  below  them  !  But  there  were 
first  that  should  be  last,  and  last  first  ! 

She  felt  herself  no  whit  worthy  of  him.  She  believed 
iierself  not  for  a  moment  comparable  to  him  !  But  his 
infinite  chivalry,  gentleness,  compassion,  would  be  her 
refuge  !  Such  a  man  would  bear  with  her  weaknesses, 
love  her  love,  and  forgive  her  sins  !  If  he  took  her  God 
from  her,  he  must  take  his  place,  and  be  a  God-like  man 
to  her  !  Then,  if  there  should  be  any  farther  truth  dis- 
coverable, why  indeed,  as  himself  said,  should  they  not 
discover  it  together  ?  Could  they  be  as  likely  to  discover 
it  apart,  and  distracted  with  longing  ?  She  must  think 
about  it  a  litde  longer  though.  She  could  not  make  up 
her  mind  the  one  way,  and  would  not  the  other.  She 
would  wait  and  see.  She  dared  not  yet.  Something 
might  turn  up  to  decide  her.  If  she  could  but  see  into 
his  heart  for  a  moment ! 

All  this  later  time,  she  had  been  going  to  church  every 
Sunday,  and  listening  to  sermons  in  which  the  curate 
poured  out  the  energy  of  a  faith  growing  stronger  day  by 
day  ;  but  not  a  word  he  said  had  as  yet  laid  hold  of  one 
root-fibre  of  her  being.  She  judged,  she  accepted,  she 
admired,  she  refused,  she  condemned,  but  she  never  did. 
To  many  souls  hell  itself  seems  a  less  frightful  alterna- 
tive than  the  agony  of  resolve,  of  turning,  of  being  born 
again  ;  but  Juliet  had  never  got  so  far  as  that  :  she  had 
never  yet  looked  the  thing  required  of  her  in  the  face. 
She  came  herself  to  wonder  that  she  had  made  any  stand 
at  all  against  the  arguments  of  Faber.  But  how  is  it  that 
any  one  who  has  been  educated  in  Christianity,  yet  does 
not  become  the  disciple  of  Jesus  Christ,  avoids  becoming 
an  atheist?  To  such  the  whole  thing  must  look  so  unlike 
what  it  really  is  !  Does  he  prefer  to  keep  half  believing 
the  revelation,  in  order  to  attribute  to  it  elements  alto- 
geth.cr  unlovely,  and  so  justify  himself  in  refusing  it  ? 
Were  it  not  better  to  reject  it  altogether  if  it  be  not  fit  to 


THE  SURGERY  DOOR.  217 

be  believed  in  ?  If  he  be  unable  to  do  that,  if  he  dare  not 
proclaim  an  intellectual  unbelief,  if  some  reverence  for 
fatlier  or  mother,  some  inward  drawing  towards  the  good 
thing,  some  desire  to  keep  an  open  door  of  escape, 
prevent,  what  a  hideous  folly  is  the  moral  disregard  ! 
"  The  thing  is  'true,  but  I  don't  mind  it !"  What  is 
this  acknowledged  heedlessness,  this  apologetic  arro- 
gance ?  Is  it  a  timid  mockery,  or  a  putting  forth 
of  the  finger  in  the  very  face  of  the  Life  of  the 
world?  I  know  well  how  foolish  words  like  these 
must  seem  to  such  as  Faber,  but  for  such  they  are  not 
written  ;  they  are  written  for  the  men  and  women  who 
close  the  lids  of  but  half-l)linded  eyes,  and  think  they  do 
God  service  by  not  denying  that  there  is  a  sun  in  the 
heavens.  There  may  be  some  denying  Christ  who  shall 
fare  better  than  they,  when  he  comes  to  judge  the  world 
with  a  judgment  which  even  those  whom  he  sends  from 
him  shall  confess  to  be  absolutely  fair — a  judgment 
whose  very  righteousness  may  be  a  consolation  to  some 
upon  whom  it  falls  heavily. 

That  night  Juliet  hardly  knew  what  she  had  said  to 
Faber,  and  longed  to  see  him  again.  She  slept  little,  and 
in  the  morning  was  weary  and  exhausted.  But  he  had 
set  her  the  grand  example  of  placing  work  before  every- 
thing else,  and  she  would  do  as  he  taught  her.  So,  in 
the  name  of  her  lover,  and  in  spite  of  her  headache,  she 
rose  to  her  day's  duty.  Love  delights  to  put  on  the 
livery  of  the  loved. 

After  breakfast,  as  was  their  custom,  Dorothy  walked 
with  her  to  the  place  where  she  gave  her  first  lesson. 
The  nearest  way  led  past  the  house  of  the  doctor  ;  but 
hitherto,  as  often  as  she  could  frame  fitting  reason, 
generally  on  the  ground  that  they  were  too  early,  and 
must  make  a  little  longer  walk  of  it,  Juliet  had  contrived 
to  avoid  turning  the  corner  of  Mr.  Drew's  shop.  This 
day,  however,  she  sought  no  excuse,  and  they  went  the 
natural  road.  She  wanted  to  pass  liis  house— to  get  a 
glimpse  of  him  if  she  might. 


2i8  PAUL  FABER. 

As  they  approached  it,  they  were  startled  by  a  sudden 
noise  of  strife.  The  next  instant  the  door  of  the  surgery, 
which  was  a  small  building  connected  with  the  house  by 
a  passage,  flew  open,  and  a  young  man  was  shot  out. 
He  half  jumped,  half  fell  down  the  six  or  eight  steps, 
turned  at  once,  and  ran  up  again.  He  had  rather  a  re- 
fined look,  notwithstanding  the  annoyance  and  resent- 
ment that  discomposed  his  features.  The  mat  had  cauglit 
tlie  door,  and  he  was  just  in  time  to  prevent  it  from 
being  shut  in  his  face. 

"  I  will  iwt  submit  to  such  treatment,  Mr.  Faber,"  cried 
the  youth.  "  It  is  not  the  part  of  a  gentleman  to  forget 
that  another  is  one." 

"  To  the  devil  with  your  gentleman  r  they  heard  the 
doctor  shout  in  a  rage,  from  behind  the  half  closed  door. 
"  The  less  said  about  the  gentleman  the  better,  when  the 
man  is  nowhere !" 

"  Mr.  Faber,  I  will  allow  no  man  to  insult  me,"  said  the 
youth,  and  made  a  fierce  attempt  to  push  the  door  open. 

"  You  are  a  wretch  below  insult,"  returned  the  doctor  ; 
and  the  next  moment  the  youth  staggered  again  down  tlic 
steps,  this  time  to  fall,  in  awkward  and  ignominious 
fashion,  half  on  the  pavement,  half  in  the  road. 

Then  out  on  the  top  of  the  steps  came  Paul  Faber 
^^■hite  with  wrath,  too  full  of  indignation  to  see  person  or 
thing  except  the  object  of  it. 

"  You  damned  rascal !"  he  cried.  "  If  you  set  foot  on 
my  premises  again,  it  will  be  at  the  risk  of  your  con- 
temptible life." 

"  Come,  come,  Mr.  Faber !  this  won't  do,"  returned  the 
youth"  defiantly,  as  he  gathered  himself  up.  "  I  don't 
want  to  make  a  row,  but — " 

"  You  don't  want  to  make  a  row,  }-ou  puppy  !  Then  / 
do.  You  don't  come  into  my  house  again.  I'll  have 
your  traps  turned  out  to  }'ou. — Jenkins  ! — You  had  better 
leave  the  town  as  fl\st  as  you  can  too,  for  this  won't  be  a 
secret." 


THE  SURGERY  DOOR.  219 

"  You'll  allow  me  to  call  on  INlr.  Crispin  first?" 

"  Do.  Tell  him  the  truth,  and  sec  whether  he'll  lake 
the  thing  up!     If  I  were  God,  I'd  damn  you  !" 

"Big  words  from  you,  Faber  !"  said  the  youth  with  _  a 
sneer,  struggling  hard  to  keep  the  advantage  he  had  in 
temper  "  Everybody  knows  you  don't  believe  there  is 
any  God." 

"Then  there  ought  to  be,  so  long  as  such  as  you  'ain't 
got  your  deserts.  You  set  up  for  a  doctor !  I  would 
sooner  lose  all  the  practice  I  ever  made,  than  send  you 
to  visit  woman  or  child,  you  heartless  miscreant  !" 

The  epithet  the  doctor  really  used  here  was  stronger  and 
more  contemptuous,  but  it  is  better  to  take  the  liberty  of 
substituting  this. 

"  AVhat  have  I  done  then  to  let  loose  all  this  Billings- 
gate?" cried  the  young  man  indignantly.  "  I  have  done 
nothing  the  most  distinguished  in  the  profession  haven't 
done  twenty  times  over." 

"  I  don't  care  a  damn.  What's  the  profession  to  hu- 
manity !  For  a  wonder  the  public  is  in  the  right  on  this 
question,  and  I  side  with  the  public.  The  profession  may 
go  to — Turkey  !" — Probably  Turkey  was  not  the  place  he 
had  intended  to  specify,  but  at  the  moment  he  caught 
sight  of  Juliet  and  her  companion. — "There!"  he  con- 
cluded, pointing  to  the  door  behind  him,  "you  go  in  and 
put  your  things  up — and  he  off." 

Without  another  word,  the  young  man  ascended  the 
steps,  and  entered  the  house. 

Juliet  stood  staring,  motionless  and  white.  Again  and 
again  Dorothy  would  have  turned  back,  but  Juliet  grasped 
her  by  the  arm,  stood  as  if  frozen  to  the  spot,  and  would 
not  let  her  move.  She  7nust  know  what  it  meant.  And 
all  the  time  a  little  crowd  had  been  gathering,  as  it  well 
might,  even  in  a  town  no  bigger  than  Glaston,  at  such 
uproar  in  its  usually  so  quiet  streets.  At  first  it  was  all 
women,  who  showed  their  interest  by  a  fixed  regard  of 
each   speaker  in   the   quarrel  in  turn,  and  a  confused 


220  PAUL  FABER. 

starine  from  one  to  the  other  of  themselves.  No  handle 
was  yet  visible  by  wliich  to  lay  hold  of  the  affair.  But 
the  moment  tlie  young  man  re-entered  the  surgery, 
and  just  as  Ivaber  was  turning  to  go  after  him,  out, 
like  a  bolt,  shot  from  the  open  door  a  long-legged, 
gaunt  mongrel  dog,  in  such  a  pitiful  state  as  I  will 
not  horrify  my  readers  by  attempting  to  describe.  It 
is  enough  to  say  that  the  knife  had  been  used  upon 
him  with  a  ghastly  freedom.  In  an  agony  of  soundless 
terror  the  poor  animal,  who  could  never  recover  the 
usage  he  had  had,  and  seemed  likely  to  tear  from  himself 
a  part  of  his  body  at  every  bound,  rushed  through  the 
spectators,  who  scattered  horror-stricken  from  his  path. 
Ah,  what  a  wild  waste  look  the  creature  had  !— as  if  his 
spirit  within  him  were  wan  with  dismay  at  the  lawless 
invasion  of  his  humble  house  of  life.  A  cxy,  almost  a 
shriek,  rose  from  the  little  crowd,  to  which  a  few  men 
had  now  added  themselves.  The  doctor  came  dashing 
down  the  steps  in  pursuit  of  him.  The  same  instant, 
having  just  escaped  collision  with  the  dog,  up  came  Mr. 
Drew.  His  round  face  flamed  like  the  sun  in  a  fog 
with  anger  and  pity  and  indignation.  He  rushed  straight 
at  the  doctor,  and  would  have  collared  him.  Faber 
flung  him  from  him  without  a  word,  and  ran  on.  _  The 
draper  reeled,  but  recovered  himself,  and  was  starting  to 
follow,  when  Juliet,  hurrying  up,  with  white  face  and 
flashing  eyes,  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said,  in  a 
voice  of  whose  authoritative  tone  she  was  herself  un- 
conscious, 

"  Stop,  Mr.  Drew." 

The  draper  obeyed,  but  stood  speechless  with  anger, 
not  yet  doubting  it  was  the  doctor  who  had  so  misused 
the  dog. 

"  I  have  been  here  from  the  first,"  she  Avent  on.  "  Mr. 
Faber  is  as  angry  as  you  are. — Please,  Dorothy,  will 
you  come?— It  'is  that  assistant  of  his,  Mr.  Drew!  He 
hasn't  been  with  liim  more  than  three  days." 


THE  SURGERY  DOOR.  221 

With  Dorothy  beside  lier,  JuHet  now  told  liim,  loud 
enough  for  all  to  hear,  what  they  had  heard  and 
seen. 

"  I  must  go  and  beg  his  pardon,"  said  the  draper. 
"  I  had  no  right  to  come  to  such  a  hasty  conclusion. 
I  hope  he  will  not  find  it  hard  to  forgive  me." 

"  You  did  no  more  than  he  would  have  done  in  your 
place,"  replied  Juliet.  " — But,"  she  added,  "where  is 
the  God  of  that  poor  animal,  Mr.  Drew  ?" 

"  I  expect  he's  taken  him  by  this  time,"  answered  the 
draper.     "  But  I  must  go  and  find  the  doctor." 

So  saying,  he  turned  and  left  them.  The  ladies  went 
also,  and  the  crowd  dispersed.  But  already  rumours,  as 
evil  as  discordant,  were  abroad  in  Glaston  to  the  preju- 
dice ofFaber,  and  at  the  door  of  his  godlessness  was  from 
all  sides  laid  the  charge  of  cruelty. 

How  difficult  it  is  to  make  prevalent  the  right  notion 
of  anything!  But  only  a  little  reflection  is  required  to 
explain  the  fact.  The  cause  is,  that  so  few  people  give 
theniselves  the  smallest  trouble  to  understand  what  is 
told  them.  The  first  thing  suggested  by  the  words 
spoken,  is  taken  instead  of  the  fact  itself,  and  to  that  as  a 
ground-plan  all  that  follows  is  fitted.  People  listen  so 
badly,  even  when  not  sleepily,  that  the  wonder  is  any- 
thing of  consequence  should  ever  be  even  approximately 
understood.  How  appalling  it  would  be  to  one  anxious 
to  convey  a  meaning,  to  see  the  shapes  his  words  assumed 
in  the  mind  of  his  listening  friend !  For,  in  place  of 
falling  upon  the  table  of  his  perception,  kept  steady  by 
will  and  judgment,  he  would  see  them  tumble  upon  the 
sounding-board  of  his  imagination,  ever  vibrating,  and 
there  be  danced  like  sand  into  all  manner  of  shapes, 
according  to  the  tune  played  by  the  capricious  instru- 
ment, llius,  in  Glaston,  the  strangest  stories  of  bar- 
barity and  cruelty  were  now  attributed  to  a  man  entirely 
incapable  of  them.  He  was  not  one  of  the  foul  seekers 
after  knowledge,  and  if  he  had  had  a  presentiment  of  the 


2:2  PAUL  FABER. 

iiatuial  tendency  of  his  opinions,  he  would  have  trembled 
at  the  vision,  and  set  liimself  to  discover  v/hcthcr  there 
might  not  be  truth  in  another  way  of  things. 

As  he  went  about  in  the  afternoon  amongst  his  sick 
and  needy,  the  curate  heard  several  of  these  ill  reports. 
Some  communicated  them  to  ease  their  own  horror, 
others  in  the  notion  of  pleasing  the  believer  by  revolting 
news  of  the  unbeliever.  In  one  liouse  he  was  told  that 
the  poor  young  man  whom  Dr.  Faber  had  enticed  to  be 
his  assistant,  had  behaved  in  the  most  gentlemanly 
fashion,  had  thrown  up  his  situation,  consenting  to  the 
loss  of  his  salary,  rather  than  connive  at  the  horrors  of 
cruelty  in  which  the  doctor  claimed  his  help.  Great 
moan  was  made  over  the  pity  that  such  a  nice  man 
should  be  given  to  such  abominations ;  but  where  was 
the  wonder,  some  said,  seeing  he  was  the  enemy  of  God, 
that  he  should  be  the  enemy  of  the  beasts  God  had 
made  ?  Much  truth,  and  many  wise  reflections  were 
uttered,  only  they  were  not  "as  level  as  the  cannon  to 
his  blank,"  for  they  were  pointed  at  the  wrong  man. 

'J'here  was  one  thing  in  which  Wingfold  differed  from 
most  of  his  parishioners  :  he  could  hear  with  his  judg- 
ment, and  make  his  imagination  lie  still.  At  the  same 
time,  in  order  to  arrive  the  more  certainly  at  the  truth,  in 
any  matter  presented  to  him,  he  would,  in  general,  listen 
to  the  end  of  what  anybody  had  to  say.  So  doing  he  let 
eagerness  exhaust  itself,  and  did  not  by  opposition  in  the 
first  heat  of  narration,  excite  partisan  interest,  or  wake 
malevolent  caution.  If  the  communication  was  worthy, 
he  thus  got  all  the  worth  of  it ;  if  it  was  evil,  he  saw  to  the 
bottom  of  it,  and  discovered,  if  such  were  there,  the  filthy 
reptile  in  the  mud  beneath,  which  was  setting  the  whole 
ugly  pool  in  commotion.  By  this  deliberateness  he  also 
gave  the  greater  weiglit  to  what  answer  he  saw  fit  to  give 
at  last — sometimes  with  the  result  of  considerable  con- 
fusion of  face  to  the  narrator.  In  the  present  instance, 
he  contented  himself  with  the  strongest  assurance  that 
the  whole  story  was  a  mistake  so  far  as  it  applied  to  Mr. 


THE  SURGERY  DOOR.  223 

Faber,  who  had,  in  fact,  dismissed  his  assistant  for  the 
very  crime  of  wliich  they  accused  himself.  The  next 
afternoon,  he  walked  the  whole  length  of  Pine-street  witii 
the  doctor,  conversing  all  the  way. 

Nor  did  he  foil  to  turn  the  thing  to  advantage.  He 
had  for  some  time  been  awaiting  a  fit  opportunity  for  in- 
structing his  people  upon  a  point  which  he  thought 
greatly  neglected  :  here  was  the  opportunity,  and  he  made 
haste  to  avail  himself  of  it. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 


THE    GROANS   OF   THE    INARTICULATE. 

HE  rest  of  the  week  was  rainy,  but  Sunday 
rose  a  day  of  perfect  summer.  As  tlie 
curate  went  up  the  pulpit-stair,  he  felt  as  if 
the  pulse  of  all  creation  were  beating  in 
unison  with  his  own  ;  for  to-day  he  was 
the  speaker  for  the  speechless,  the  inter- 
preter of  groans  to  the  creation  of  God. 

He  read,  Are  not  two  span-ows  sold  for  a  farthing  1  and 
one  of  them  shall  not  fall  on  the  ground  ivithout  your 
Father,  and  said  : 

"  My  friends,  doth  God  care  for  sparrows?  Or  sailhhe 
it  altogether  for  our  sakes,  and  not  at  all  for  the  sparrows? 
No.  truly  ;  for  indeed  it  would  be  nothing  to  us  if  it  were 
not  everything  to  the  sparrows.  The  word  cannot  reach 
our  door  except  through  the  sparrow's  nest.  For  see  ! 
what  comfort  would  it  be  to  us  to  be  told  we  were  of 
more  value  than  ever  so  many  sparrows,  if  their  value  was 
nothing — if  God  only  knew  and  did  not  care  for  them  ? 
The  saying  would  but  import  that  we  were  of  more  value 
than  just  nothing.  Oh,  how  skilful  is  unbehef  to  take  all 
the  colour  and  all  the  sweetness  and  all  the  power  out  of 
the  words  of  The  Word  himself!  How  many  Christians 
are  there  not  who  take  the  passage  to  mean  that  not  a 
sparrow  can  fall  to  the  ground  without  the  hno7c>h'dge  of 


THE  GROANS  OF  THE  hV ARTICULATE.        225 

its  creator  !  A  mighty  thing  that  for  the  sparrow  !  If 
such  a  Christian  seemed  to  the  sparrow  tlie  lawful  inter- 
preter of  the  sparrow's  creator,  he  would  make  an  infidel 
of  the  sparrow.  What  Christ-like  heart,  what  heart  of 
loving  man,  could  be  content  to  take  all  the  comfort  to 
itself,  and  leave  none  for  the  sparrows  ?  Not  that  of  our 
mighty  brother  Paul.  In  his  ears  sounded,  in  his  heart 
echoed,  the  cries  of  all  the  creation  of  God.  Their 
groanings  that  could  not  be  uttered,  roused  the  response 
of  his  great  compassion.  When  Christ  was  born  in  the 
heart  of  Paul,  the  whole  creation  of  God  was  born  with 
him ;  nothing  that  could  feel  could  he  help  loving  ;  in 
the  trouble  of  the  creatures'  troubles,  sprang  to  life  in  his 
heart  the  hope,  that  all  that  could  groan  should  yet 
rejoice,  that  on  the  lowest  servant  in  the  house  should 
yet  descend  the  fringe  of  the  robe  that  was  cast  about 
the  redeemed  body  of  the  Son.  He  was  no  pettifogging 
priest  standing  up  for  the  rights  of  the  superior  !  An 
exclusive  is  a  self-excluded  Christian.  They  that  shut  the 
door  will  find  themselves  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  door 
they  have  shut.  They  that  push  with  the  horn  and  stamp 
with  the  hoof,  cannot  be  admitted  to  the  fold.  St.  Paul 
would  acknowledge  no  distinctions.  He  saw  e\ery  wall — 
of  seclusion,  of  exclusion,  of  partition,  broken  down. 
J  ew  and  Greek,  barbarian,  Scythian,  bond  and  free — all 
must  come  in  to  his  heart.  Mankind  was  not  enough  to 
fill  that  divine  space,  enlarged  to  infinitude  by  the 
presence  of  the  Christ :  angels,  principalities,  and  powers, 
must  share  in  its  conscious  splendour.  Not  yet  filled, 
yet  imsatisfied  with  beings  to  love,  Paul  spread  forth  his 
arms  to  the  whole  groaning  and  troubled  race  of  animals. 
Whatever  could  send  forth  a  sigh  of  discomfort,  or  heave 
A  helpless  limb  in  pain,  he  took  to  the  bosom  of  his  hope 
and  affection — yea,  of  his  love  and  faith  :  on  them,  too, 
he  saw  the  cup  of  Christ's  heart  overflow.  For  Paul  had 
heard,  if  not  from  his  own,  yet  from  the  lips  of  them  that 
heard  him  speak,  the  words,  Arc  not  five  sparrows  sold  for 
two  farthings,  and  not  one  of  them  is  forgotten  before  God? 
Q 


226  PAUL  FABER. 

What  if  the  little  half-farthing  things  bear  their  share, 
and  always  have  borne,  in  that  which  is  behind  of  the 
sufferings  of  Christ  ?  In  any  case,  not  one  of  them,  not 
one  so  young  that  it  topples  from  the  edge  of  its  nest, 
unable  to  fly,  is  forgotten  by  the  Father  of  men.  It  shall 
not  have  a  lonely  deathbed,  for  the  Father  of  Jesus  will 
be  with  it.  It  must  be  true.  It  is  indeed  a  daring  word, 
but  less  would  not  be  enough  for  the  hearts  of  men,  for 
the  glory  of  God,  for  the  need  of  the  sparrow.  I  do  not 
close  my  eyes  to  one  of  a  thousand  seemingly  contra- 
dictory facts.  I  misdoubt  my  reading  of  the  small-print 
notes,  and  appeal  to  the  text,  yea,  beyond  the  text,  even 
to  the  God  of  the  sparrows  himself 

"  I  count  it  as  belonging  to  the  smallness  of  our  faith, 
to  the  poorness  of  our  religion,  to  the  rudimentary  con- 
dition of  our  nature,  that  our  sympathy  with  God's 
creatures  is  so  small.  Whatever  the  narrowness  of  our 
poverty-stricken,  threadbare  theories  concerning  them, 
whatever  the  inhospitality  and  exclusiveness  of  our  mean 
pride  towards  them,  we  cannot  escape  admitting  that  to 
them  pain  is  pain,  and  comfort  is  comfort;  that  they 
hunger  and  thirst ;  that  sleep  restores  and  death  delivers 
them  :  surely  these  are  ground  enough  to  the  true  heart 
wherefore  it  should  love  and  cherish  them — the  heart  at 
least  that  believes  with  St.  Paul,  that  they  need  and  have 
the  salvation  of  Christ  as  well  as  we.  Right  grievously, 
though  blindly,  do  they  groan  after  it. 

"  The  ignorance  and  pride  which  is  for  ever  sinking  us 
towards  them,  are  the  very  elements  in  us  which  mislead 
us  in  our  judgment  concerning  them,  causing  us  to  ima- 
gine them  not  upon  a  lower  merely,  but  upon  an  altogether 
diftcrent  footing  in  creation  from  our  own.  The  same 
things  we  call  by  one  name  in  us,  and  by  another  in 
them.  How  jealous  have  not  men  been  as  to  allowing 
them  any  share  worthy  the  name  of  reason  !  But  you 
may  see  a  greater  difference  in  this  respect  between  the 
lowest  and  the  highest  at  a  common  school,  than  you  will 
between  them  and  us.     A  pony  that  has  taught  itself 


THE  GROANS  OF  THE  INARTICULATE.         227 

without  liands  to  pump  water  for  its  thirst,  an  elephant 
that  puts  forth  its  miglity  lip  to  lift  the  moving  wheel  of 
the  heavy  waggon  over  the  body  of  its  fallen  driver,  has 
rather  more  to  plead  on  the  score  of  intellect  than  many 
a  schoolboy.  Not  a  few  of  them  shed  tears.  A  bishop, 
one  of  the  foremost  of  our  scholars,  assured  me  that  once 
he  saw  a  certain  animal  laugh  while  playing  oft"  a  practical 
joke  on  another  of  a  different  kind  from  himself.  I  do  not 
mention  the  kind  of  animal,  because  it  would  give 
occasion  for  a  silly  articulate  joke,  far  inferior  to  his  prac- 
tical one.  I  go  further,  and  say,  that  I  more  than  suspect  a 
rudimentary  conscience  in  every  animal.  I  care  not  how 
remotely  rudimentary.  There  must  be  in  the  moral  world 
absolute  and  right  potent  germinal  facts  which  lie  infini- 
tudes beyond  the  reach  of  any  moral  microscope,  as  in 
the  natural  world  beyond  the  most  powerful  of  lenses. 
Yet  surely  in  this  respect  also,  one  may  see  betwixt  boys 
at  the  same  school  greater  difterences  than  there  are 
betwixt  the  highest  of  the  animals  and  the  lowest  of  the 
huraans.  If  you  plead  for  time  for  the  boy  to  develop 
his  poor  rudimentary  moUusk  of  a  conscience,  take  it  and 
heartily  welcome — but  grant  it  the  animals  also.  With 
some  of  them  it  may  need  millions  of  years  for  anything  I 
know.  Certainly  in  many  human  beings  it  never  comes 
plainly  into  our  ken  all  the  time  they  walk  the  earth.  Who 
.shall  say  how  far  the  vision  of  the  apostle  reached  ?  but 
surely  the  hope  in  which  he  says  God  himself  subjected 
the  creature  to  vanity,  must  have  been  an  infinite  hope  : 
I  will  hope  infinitely.  That  the  Bible  gives  any  ground 
for  the  general  fancy  that  at  death  an  animal  ceases  to 
exist,  is  but  the  merest  dullest  assumption.  Neither  is 
there  a  single  scientific  argument,  so  far  as  I  know, 
against  the  continued  existence  of  the  animals,  which 
would  not  tell  equally  against  human  immortality.  ]\Iy 
"lope  is,  that  in  some  way,  concerning  which  I  do  not 
low  choose  to  speculate,  there  may  be  progress,  growth, 
for  them  also.  While  I  believe  tor  myself,  I  must  hope  for 
them.  This  much  at  least  seems  clear — and  I  could  press 
^  2 


228  PAUL  FABER. 

the  argument  further  :  if  not  one  of  them  is  forgotten 
before  God — and  one  of  them  yet  passes  out  of  being — 
then  is  God  the  God  of  the  dead  and  not  of  the  Uving !  Ikit 
we  praise  thee,  we  bless  thee,  we  worship  thee,  we  glorify 
thee,  we  give  thanks  to  thee  for  thy  great  glory,  O  Lord 
God,  heavenly  king,  God  the  Father  almighty !  Thy 
universe  is  Ufe,  life  and  not  death.  Even  the  death  which 
awoke  in  the  bosom  of  Sin,  thy  Son,  opposing  himself  to 
its  hate,  and  letting  it  spend  its  fury  upon  him,  hatli 
abolished.  I  know  nothing,  therefore  care  litde,  as  to 
whether  or  not  it  may  have  pleased  God  to  bring  man  up 
to  the  hill  of  humanity  through  the  swamps  and  thickets  of 
lower  animal  nature,  but  I  do  care  that  I  should  not 
now  any  more  approach  that  level,  whether  once  rightly 
my  own  or  not.  For  what  is  honour  in  the  animals, 
would  be  dishonour  in  me.  Not  the  less  may  such  be 
the  punishment,  perhaps  redemption,  in  store  for  some 
men  and  women.  For  aught  I  know,  or  see  unworthy 
in  the  thought,  the  self-sufficing  exquisite,  for  instance,  may 
one  day  find  himself  chattering  amongst  fellow  apes  in 
some  monkey-village  of  Africa  or  Burmah.  Nor  is  the 
supposition  absurd,  though  at  first  sight  it  may  well  so 
appear.  Let  us  remember  that  Ave  carry  in  us  the  charac- 
terisdcs  of  each  and  every  animal.  There  is  not  one 
fiercest  passion,  one  movement  of  affecdon,  one  trait  of 
animal  economy,  one  quality  either  for  praise  or  blame, 
existing  in  them  that  does  not  exist  in  us.  The  relation- 
ship cannot  be  so  very  distant.  And  if  theirs  be  so  freely 
in  us,  why  deny  them  so  much  we  call  ours  ?  Hear  how 
one  of  the  ablest  doctors  of  the  English  church,  John 
Donne,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's  in  the  reign  of  James  the  first, 
writes  : — 

Man  is  .a  lump  where  all  beasts  kneaded  be; 
Wisdom  makes  him  an  aik  where  all  agree  ; 
The  fool,  in  whom  these  beasts  do  live  at  jar, 
Is  sport  to  others,  and  a  theatre  ; 
Kor  scapes  he  so,  but  is  himself  their  prey  ; 
All  \vhich  was  man  in  him,  is  eat  away  ; 


THE  GROANS  OF  TIIE  INARTICULATE.         229 

And  now  his  beasts  on  one  another  feed, 

Yet  couple  in  anger,  and  new  monsters  breed. 

How  happy 's  he  which  hath  due  place  assigned 

To  liis  beasts,  and  disaforcsted  his  mind  ! 

Empaled  himself  to  keep  them  out,  not  in  ; 

Can  sow,  and  dares  trust  corn  where  they  have  been; 

Can  use  his  horse,  goat,  wolf,  and  every  beast. 

And  is  not  ass  himself  to  all  the  rest  ! 

Else  man  not  only  is  the  herd  of  swine. 

But  he's  those  devils  too  which  did  incline 

Them  to  an  headlong  rage,  and  made  them  worse  ; 

For  man  can  add  weight  to  heaven's  heaviest  curse. 


"  It  astonishes  me,  friends,  that  we  are  not  more 
terrified  at  ourselves.  Except  the  Hving  Father  have 
brought  order,  harmony,  a  world,  out  of  his  chaos,  a  man 
is  but  a  cage  of  unclean  beasts,  Avith  no  one  to  rule 
them,  however  fine  a  gentleman  he  may  think  himself. 
Even  in  this  fair,  well-ordered  England  of  ours,  at 
Kirkdale,  in  Yorkshire,  was  discovered,  some  fifty  years 
ago,  a  great  cavern  that  had  once  been  a  nest  of  gigantic 
hyenas,  evidenced  by  their  own  unbroken  bones,  and 
the  crushed  bones  of  tigers,  elephants,  bears,  and  many 
other  creatures.  See  to  what  a  lovely  peace  the  creating 
hand  has  even  now  brought  our  England,  far  as  she  is 
yet  from  being  a  province  in  the  kingdom  of  lieaven  ; 
but  see  also  in  her  former,  condition  a  type  of  the  horror 
to  which  our  souls  may  festering  sink,  if  we  shut  out  his 
free  spirit,  and  have  it  no  more  moving  upon  the  foce  of 
our  waters.  And  when  I  say  a  type,  let  us  be  assured 
there  is  no  type  worth  the  name  which  is  not  poor  to 
express  the  glory  or  the  horror  it  represents. 

"  To  return  to  the  animals  :  they  are  a  care  to  God  ; 
they  occupy  part  of  his  thoughts  ;  we  have  duties  towards 
them,  owe  them  friendliness,  tenderness.  That  God 
should  see  us  use  them  as  we  do,  is  a  terrible  fact — a 
severe  difficulty  to  faith.  Eor  to  such  a  pass  has  the 
worship  of  Knowledge — an  idol  vile  even  as  Mammon 
himself,  and  more  cruel — arrived,  that  its  priests,  men 
kind  as   other  men  to  their  own  children,  kind  to  the 


230  PAUL  FABER. 

animals  of  their  household,  kind  even  to  some  of  the 
wild  animals,  men  who  will  scatter  crumbs  to  the  robins 
in  winter,  and  set  water  for  the  sparrows  on  their  house- 
top in  summer,  will  yet,  in  the  worship  of  this  their  idol, 
in  their  greed  after  the  hidden  things  of  the  life  of  the 
flesh,  without  ocruple,  confessedly  without  compunction, 
will,  I  say,  dead  to  the  natural  motions  of  the  divine 
element  in  them,  the  inherited  pity  of  God,  subject  inno- 
cent, helpless,  appealing,  dumb  souls,  to  such  tortures  whose 
bare  description  would  justly  set  me  forth  to  the 
blame  of  cruelty  towards  those  who  sat  listening  to  the 
same.  Have  these  living,  moving,  seeing,  hearing,  feeling 
creatures,  who  could  not  be  but  by  the  will  and  the  presence 
of  another  any  more  than  ourselves — have  they  no  rights 
in  this  their  compelled  existence  ?  Does  the  most  earnest 
worship  of  an  idol  excuse  robbery  with  violence  extreme 
to  obtain  the  sacrifices  he  loves  ?  Does  the  value  of  the 
thing  that  may  be  found  there  justify  me  in  breaking  into 
the  house  of  another's  life  ?  Does  his  ignorance  of  the 
existence  of  that  which  I  seek  alter  the  case  ?  Can  it  be 
right  to  water  the  tree  of  knowledge  with  blood,  and  stir 
its  boughs  with  the  gusts  of  bitter  agony,  that  we  may 
force  its  ilovv'ers  into  blossom  before  their  time?  Sweetly 
human  must  be  the  delights  of  knowledge  so  gained  ! 
grand  in  themselves,  and  ennobling  in  their  tendencies  ! 
AVill  it  justify  the  same,  as  a  noble,  a  laudable,  a  worship- 
ful endeavour,  to  cover  it  with,  the  reason  or  pretext — 
God  knows  which — of  such  love  for  my  own  human  kind 
as  strengthens  me  to  the  most  ruthless  torture  of  their 
poorer  relations,  whose  little  treasure  I  would  tear  from 
them  that  it  may  teach  me  how  to  add  to  their  wealth  ? 
May  my  God  give  me  grace  to  prefer  a  hundred  deaths 
to  a  life  gained  by  the  suffering  of  one  simplest  creature. 
He  holds  his  life  as  I  hold  mine,  by  finding  himself  there 
where  I  find  myself.  Shall  I  quiet  my  heart  with  tlie 
throbs  of  another  heart?  soothe  my  nerves  with  the 
agonized  tension  of  a  system  ?  live  a  few  days  longer  by 
a  century  of  shrieking  deaths  ?     It  were  a  hellish  wrong, 


THE  GROAXS  OF  THE  INARTICULATE.        231 

a  selfish,  hateful,  violent  injustice.  An  evil  life  it  were 
that  I  gained  or  held  by  such  foul  means  !  How  could  I 
even  attempt  to  justify  the  injury,  save  on  the  plea  that  I 
am  already  better  and  more  valuable  than  he ;  that  I  am 
the  stronger ;  that  the  possession  of  all  the  pleasures  of 
human  intelligence  gives  me  a  right  to  turn  the  poor 
innocent  joys  of  his  senses  into  pains  before  which, 
threatening  my  own  person,  my  very  soul  would  grow 
gray  with  fear  ?  Or — let  me  grant  what  many  professional 
men  deny  utterly,  that  some  knowledge  of  what  is  called 
practical  value  to  the  race  has  been  thus  attained — what 
can  be  its  result  at  best  but  the  adding  of  a  cubit  to  the 
life  ?  Grant  that  it  gave  us  an  immortal  earthly  existence, 
one  so  happy  that  the  most  sensual  would  never  wish  for 
death  :  what  would  it  be  by  such  means  to  live  for  ever  ? 
God  in  heaven !  who,  what  is  the  man  who  would  dare 
live  a  life  wrung  from  the  agonies  of  tortured  innocents  ? 
Against  the  will  of  my  Maker,  live  by  means  that  are  an 
abhorrence  to  his  soul !  Such  a  life  must  be  all  in  the 
flesh  !  the  spirit  could  have  little  share  therein.  Could  it 
be  even  a  life  of  the  flesh  that  came  of  treason  committed 
against  essential  animality  ?  It  could  be  but  an  abnormal 
monstrous  existence,  that  sprang,  toadstool-like,  from  the 
blood-marsh  of  cruelty — a  life  neither  spiritual  nor  fleshly, 
but  devilish. 

"  It  is  true  we  are  above  the  creatures — but  not  to 
keep  them  down ;  they  are  for  our  use  and  service,  but 
neither  to  be  trodden  under  the  foot  of  pride,  nor  mis- 
used as  ministers,  at  their  worst  cost  of  suftering,  to  our 
inordinate  desires  of  ease.  After  no  such  fashion  did 
God  give  them  to  be  our  helpers  in  living.  To  be 
tortured  that  we  might  gather  ease ! — none  but  a  devil 
could  have  made  them  for  that !  When  I  see  a  man, 
who  professes  to  believe  not  only  in  a  God,  but  such  a 
God  as  holds  his  court  in  the  person  of  Jesus  Christ, 
assail  with  miserable  cruelty  the  scanty,  lovely,  timorous 
lives  of  the  helpless  about  him,  it  sets  my  soul  aflame 
with  such  indignant  wrath,  with  such  a  sense  of  horrible 


232  I'AUL  FABER. 

incongruity  and  wrong  to  every  harmony  of  Nature  human 
and  divine,  that  I  have  to  make  haste  and  rush  to  the  feet 
of  the  Master,  lest  I  should  scorn  and  hate  where  he  has 
told  me  to  love.  Such  a  wretch,  not  content  that  Christ 
should  have  died  to  save  men,  will  tear  Christ's  living 
things  into  palpitating  shreds,  that  he  may  discover  from 
them  how  better  to  save  the  same  men.  Is  this  to  be  in 
the  world  as  he  was  in  the  world  ?  Picture  to  yourselves 
one  of  these  Christian  inquirers,  erect  before  his  class  of 
students  :  knife  in  hand,  he  is  demonstrating  to  them 
from  the  live  animal,  so  fixed  and  screwed  and  wired  that 
he  cannot  find  for  his  agony  even  the  poor  relief  of  a 
yelp,  how  this  or  that  writhing  nerve  or  twitching  muscle 
operates  in  the  business  of  a  life  which  his  demonstration 
has  turned  from  the  gift  of  love  into  a  poisoned  curse ; 
picture  to  yourselves  such  a  one  so  busied,  suddenly 
raising  his  eyes  and  seeing  the  eyes  that  see  him  ! — the 
eyes  of  him  who,  when  he  hung  upon  the  cross,  knew 
that  he  suffered  for  the  whole  creation  of  his  Pather,  to 
lift  it  out  of  darkness  into  light,  out  of  wallowing  chaos 
into  order  and  peace  !  Those  eyes  watching  him,  that 
pierced  hand  soothing  his  victim,  would  not  the  knife  fall 
from  his  hand,  in  the  divine  paralysis  that  shoots  from 
the  heart  and  conscience  ?  Ah  me  !  to  have  those  eyes 
upon  me  in  any  wrong-doing  !  One  thing  only  could  be 
worse — not  to  have  them  upon  me — to  be  left  with  my 
devils. 

"  You  all  know  the  immediate  cause  of  the  turning  of 
our  thoughts  in  this  direction — the  sad  case  of  cruelty 
that  so  unexpectedly  rushed  to  light  in  Glaston.  So 
shocked  was  the  man  in  whose  house  it  took  place,  that, 
as  he  drove  from  his  door  the  unhap])y  youth  Avho  was 
guilty  of  the  crime,  this  testimony,  in  the  righteous  indig- 
nation of  his  soul,  believing,  as  you  are  aware,  in  no  God 
and  r'atlier  of  all,  broke  from  him  with  curses — '  There 
ought  to  be  a  God  to  punish  such  cruelty.' — '  Begone,'  he 
said.  '  Never  would  I  commit  woman  or  child  into  the 
hands  of  a  wilful  author  of  sutierinii.' 


THE  GROANS  OF  THE  INARTICULATE.        233 

"  We  are  to  rule  over  the  animals  ;  the  opposite  of  rule 
is  torture,  the  final  culmination  of  anarchy.  We  slay 
them,  and  if  with  reason,  then  with  right.  Therein  we 
do  them  no  wrong.  Yourselves  will  bear  me  witness  how, 
ever  and  always  in  this  place,  I  have  protested  that  death 
is  no  evil,  save  as  the  element  of  injustice  may  be  mingled 
therein.  The  sting  of  death  is  sin.  Death,  righteously 
inllicted,  I  repeat,  is  the  reverse  of  an  injury. 

"  What  if  there  is  too  much  lavishment  of  human 
affection  upon  objects  less  than  human  !  it  hurts  less  than 
if  there  were  none.  1  confess  that  it  moves  with  strange 
discomfort  one  who  has  looked  upon  swarms  of  mother- 
less children,  to  see  in  a  childless  house  a  ruined  dog, 
overfed,  and  snarling  with  discomfort  even  on  the  blessed 
throne  of  childhood,  the  lap  of  a  woman.  But  even  that 
is  better  than  that  the  woman  should  love  no  creature  at 
all — infinitely  better  !  It  may  be  she  loves  as  she  can. 
Her  heart  may  not  yet  be  equal  to  the  love  of  a  child, 
may  be  able  only  to  cherish  a  creature  whose  oppositions 
are  merely  amusing,  and  whose  presence,  as  doubtless  it 
seems  to  her,  gives  rise  to  no  responsibilities.  Let  her 
love  her  dog — even  although  her  foolish  treatment  of 
him  should  delay  the  poor  animal  in  its  slow  trot 
towards  canine  perfection  :  she  may  come  to  love  him 
better ;  she  may  herself  through  him  advance  to  the 
love  and  the  saving  of  a  child^who  can  tell  ?  But  do 
not  mistake  me :  there  are  women  with  hearts  so  divinely 
insatiable  in  loving,  that  in  the  mere  gaps  of  their  untir- 
ing ministration  to  humanity,  they  will  fondle  any  living 
thing  capable  of  receiving  the  ovcrllow  of  their  aftcc- 
tion.  Let  such  love  as  they  will ;  they  can  hardly  err. 
It  is  not  of  such  that  I  have  spoken. 

"  Again,  to  how  many  a  lonely  woman  is  not  life 
made  endurable,  even  pleasant,  by  the  possession  and 
the  love  of  a  devoted  dog  !  The  man  who  would  focus 
the  burning  glass  of  science  upon  the  animal,  may  well 
mock  at  such  a  mission,  and  speak  words  contemptuous 
of  the  yellow  old  maid  with  her  yellow  ribbons  and  her 


234  PAUL  FABER. 

yellow  clog.  Nor  would  it  change  his  countenance  or 
soften  his  heart  to  be  assured  that  that  withered  husk  of 
womanhood  was  lovely  once,  and  the  heart  in  it  is  loving 
still ;  that  she  was  reduced  to  all  but  misery  by  the  self- 
indulgence  of  a  brother,  to  whom  the  desolation  of  a 
sister  was  but  a  pebble  to  pave  the  way  to  his  pleasures ; 
that  there  is  no  one  left  her  now  to  love,  or  to  be  grateful 
for  her  love,  but  the  creature  ^^'hich  he  regards  merely  as 
a  box  of  nature's  secrets,  worthy  only  of  being  rudely 
ransacked  for  what  it  may  contain,  and  thrown  aside 
when  shattered  in  the  search.  A  box  he  is  indeed,  in 
which  lies  enclosed  a  shining  secret ! — a  truth  too  radiant 
for  the  eyes  of  such  a  man  as  he  :  the  love  of  a  living  God 
is,  in  him  and  his  fellows,  ranging  the  world  in  broken 
incarnation,  ministering  to  forlorn  humanity  in  dumb  yet 
divine  service.  Who  knows,  in  their  great  silence,  how 
germane  with  ours  may  not  be  their  share  in  the  groanings 
that  cannot  be  uttered  ! 

"  Friends,  there  must  be  a  hell.  If  we  leave  scripture 
and  human  belief  aside,  science  reveals  to  us  that  nature 
has  her  catastrophes — that  there  is  just  so  much  of  the 
f;iiled  cycle,  of  the  unrecovered,  the  unbalanced,  theincom- 
pleted,  the  fallen-short,  in  her  motions,  that  the  result 
must  be  collision,  shattering  resumption,  the  rage  of  vm- 
speakable  fire.  Our  world  and  all  the  worlds  of  the 
system,  are,  I  suppose,  doomed  to  fall  back  at  length 
into  their  parent  furnace.  Then  will  come  one  end  and 
another  beginning.  There  is  many  an  end  and  many  a 
beginning.  At  one  of  those  ends,  and  that  not  the 
farthest,  must  surely  lie  a  hell,  in  which,  of  all  sins,  the 
sin  of  cruelty,  under  whatever  pretext  committed,  will 
receive  its  meed  from  him  with  whom  there  is  no  respect 
of  persons,  but  who  gi\eth  to  every  man  according  to  his 
works.  Nor  will  it  avail  him  to  plead  that  in  life  he  never 
believed  in  such  retribution  ;  for  a  cruelty  that  would  have 
been  restrained  by  a  fear  of  hell  was  none  the  less  hell- 
worthy. 

"  Lut  I  will  not  follow  this  track.     The  general  con- 


THE  GROANS  OF  THE  INARTICULATE.         235 

viction  of  humanity  will  be  found  right  against  any 
conclusions  calling  themselves  scientific,  that  go  beyond 
the  scope  or  the  reach  of  science.  Neither  will  I  presume 
to  suggest  the  operation  of  any  kx  iaUonis'm.  respect  of 
cruelty.  I  know  little  concerning  the  salvation  by  fire  of 
which  St.  Paul  writes  in  his  first  epistle  to  the  Corinthians; 
but  I  say  this,  that  if  the  difficulty  of  curing  cruelty  be 
commensurate  with  the  horror  of  its  nature,  then  verily 
for  the  cruel  must  the  furnace  of  wrath  be  seven  times 
heated.  Ah  !  for  them,  poor  injured  ones,  the  wrong 
passes  away!  Friendly,  lovely  death,  the  midwife  of 
heaven,  comes  to  their  relief,  and  their  pain  sinks  in 
precious  peace.  But  what  is  to  be  done  for  our  brother's 
soul,  bespattered  with  the  gore  of  innocence  ?  Shall  the 
cries  and  moans  of  the  torture  he  inflicted  haunt  him  like 
an  evil  smell?  Shall  the  phantoms  of  exquisite  and 
sickening  pains  float  lambent  about  the  fingers,  and  pass 
and  repass  through  the  heart  and  brain,  that  sent  their 
realities  quivering  and  burning  into  the  souls  of  the 
speechless  ones  ?  It  has  been  said  somewhere  that  the 
hell  for  the  cruel  man  would  be  to  have  the  faces  of  all  the 
creatures  he  had  wronged  come  staring  round  him,  with 
sad,  weary  eyes.  But  must  not  the  divine  nature,  the 
pitiful  heart  of  the  universe,  have  already  begun  to 
.  reassert  itself  in  him,  before  that  would  hurt  him  ?  Upon 
such  a  man  the  justice  in  my  heart  desires  this  retribu- 
tion— to  desire  more  would  be  to  be  more  vile  than  he  ; 
to  desire  less  would  not  be  to  love  my  brother  :— that  the 
soul  capable  of  such  deeds  shall  be  compelled  to  know 
the  nature  of  its  deeds  in  the  light  of  the  absolute  Truth— 
that  the  eternal  fact  shall  flame  out  from  the  divine  region 
of  ils  own  conscience  until  it  writhe  in  the  shame  ot 
being  itself,  loathe  as  absolute  horror  the  deeds  which  it 
would  now  justify,  and  long  for  deliverance  from  that 
which  it  has  made  of  itself.  The  moment  the  disciphne 
begins  to  blossom,  the  moment  the  man  begins  to  thirst 
after  confession  and  reparation,  then  is  he  once  more 
my  brother;  then  from  an  object  of  disgust  in  spite  of 


236  PAUL  FABER. 

pity,  he  becomes  a  being  for  all  tender  lionest  hearts  in 
the  universe  of  God  to  love,  cherish,  revere. 

"  Meantime,  you  who  behold  with  aching  hearts  the 
wrongs  done  to  the  lower  brethren  that  ought  to  be 
cherished  as  those  to  whom  less  has  been  given,  having 
done  all,  stand  comforted  in  the  thought  that  not  one  of 
them  suffers  without  the  loving,  caring,  sustaining  pre- 
sence of  the  great  Father  of  the  universe,  the  Father  of 
men,  the  God  and  Father  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  God  of  the 
sparrows  and  the  ravens  and  the  oxen — yea,  of  the  lilies 
of  the  field." 

As  might  be  expected,  Mrs.  Ramshorn  was  indignant. 
What  right  had  he  to  desecrate  a  pulpit  of  the  church  of 
England  by  misusing  it  for  the  publication  of  his  foolish 
fencies  about  creatures  that  had  not  reason !  Of  course 
nobody  would  think  of  being  cruel  to  them,  poor  things  ! 
But  there  was  that  silly  man  talking  about  them  as  if 
they  were  better  Christians  than  any  of  them  !  He  was 
intruding  into  things  he  had  not  seen,  vainly  puffed 
up  by  his  fleshly  mind. 

The  last  portion  of  these  remarks  she  made  in  the 
hearing  of  her  niece,  who  carried  it  home  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  her  husband.  He  said  he  could  laugh  with  a 
good  conscience,  for  the  reading  of  the  passage,  accord- 
ing to  the  oldest  manuscripts  we  have,  was  not  "  the 
things  he  hath  not  seen,"  but  "  the  things  he  hath  seen," 
and  he  thought  it  meant — haunting  the  visible,  the  sen- 
suous, the  fleshly,  so,  for  the  satisfaction  of  an  earthly 
imagination,  in  love  with  embodiment  for  its  own  sake, 
worshipping  angels,  and  not  keeping  hold  of  the  invi- 
sible, the  real,  the  true— the  mind,  namely,  and  spirit  of 
the  living  Christ,  the  Head. 

"  Poor  auntie,"  replied  Helen,  "  would  hold  herself 
quite  above  the  manuscripts.  With  her  it  is  the  merest 
sectarianism  and  radicalism  to  meddle  with  the  text  as 
appointed  to    be    read   in   churches.     Wliat  was   good 


THE  GROANS  OF  THE  INARTICULATE.         237 

enough  for  the  dean,  must  be  far  more  than  good  cnougli 
for  an  unbeneficed  curate  !" 

But  the  rector,  who  loved  dogs  and  horses,  was  de- 
lighted with  the  sermon. 

Faber's  whole  carriage  antl  conduct  in  regard  to  the 
painful  matter  was  such  as  to  add  to  Juliet's  confidence 
in  him.  Somehow  she  grew  more  at  ease  in  his  com- 
pany, and  no  longer  took  pains  to  avoid  liim. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 


cow-LAN  E-CH  APEL. 


lY  degrees  Mr.  Drake's  mind  grew  quiet,  and 
accommodated  itself  to  the  conditions  of 
the  new  atmosphere  in  which  at  first  it  was 
so  hard  for  him  to  draw  spiritual  breath.  He 
found  himself  again  able  to  pray,  and  while 
he  bowed  his  head  lower  before  God,  he 
lifted  up  his  heart  higher  towards  him.  His  uncle's 
bequest  presenting  no  appropriative  difficulties,  he  at 
once  set  himself  to  be  a  faithful  and  wise  steward  of 
the  grace  of  God,  to  which  holy  activity  the  return  of 
his  peace  was  mainly  owing.  Now  and  then  the  fear 
would  return  that  God  had  sent  him  the  money  in  dis- 
pleasure, that  he  had  handed  him  over  all  his  principal, 
and  refused  to  be  his  banker  any  more ;  and  the  light- 
winged,  haunting  dread  took  from  him  a  little  even  of 
the  blameless  pleasure  that  naturally  belonged  to  the 
paying  of  his  debts.  Also  he  now  became  plainly  aware 
of  a  sore  fact  which  he  had  all  his  life  dimly  suspected — 
namely,  that  there  was  in  his  nature  a  spot  of  the 
leprosy  of  avarice,  the  desire  to  accumulate.  Hence  he 
grew  almost  afraid  of  his  money,  and  his  anxiety  to  spend 
it  freely  and  right,  to  keep  it  flowing  lest  it  should  pile 
up  its  waves  and  drown  his  heart,  went  on  steadily  in- 


CO  W-LANE-  CILi  PEL .  239 

creasing.  That  he  could  hoard  now  if  he  pleased,  gave 
him  just  the  opportunity  of  burning  the  very  possibility 
out  of  his  soul.  It  is  those  who  are  unaware  of  their  pro- 
clivities, and  never  pray  against  them,  that  must  be  led 
into  temptation,  lest  they  should  for  ever  continue  capable 
of  evil.  ^Vhen  a  man  could  do  a  thing,  then  first  can  lie 
abstain  from  doing  it.  Now,  with  his  experience  of  both 
poverty  and  riches,  the  minister  knew  that  he  must  make 
them  both  follow  like  hounds  at  his  heel.  If  he  were  now 
to  love  money,  if,  even  in  the  free  use  of  it,  he  were  to 
regard  it  with  lionour,  fear  its  loss,  forget  that  it  came  from 
God,  and  must  return  to  God  through  holy  channels,  he 
must  sink  into  a  purely  contemptible  slave.  Where  would 
be  the  room  for  any  further  repentance  ?  He  would  have 
had  every  chance,  and  failed  in  every  trial  the  most 
opposed  !  He  must  be  lord  of  his  wealth ;  Mammon 
must  be  the  slave,  not  Walter  Drake.  Mammon  must 
be  more  than  his  brownie,  more  than  his  Robin  Good- 
fellow  ;  he  must  be  the  subject  Djin  of  a  holy  spell  — 
holier  than  Solomon's  wisdom,  more  potent  than  the 
stamp  of  his  seal.  At  present  he  almost  feared  him  as  a 
Caliban  to  whom  he  might  not  be  able  to  play  Prospero,  an 
Ufreet  half-escaped  from  his  jar,  a  demon  he  had  raised, 
for  whom  he  must  find  work,  or  be  torn  by  him  into 
fragments.  The  slave  must  have  drudgery,  and  the 
master  must  take  heed  that  he  never  send  him  alone 
to  do  love's  dear  service. 

"  I  am  sixty,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  and  I  have  learned 
to  begin  to  learn."  Behind  him  his  public  life  looked  a 
mere  tale  that  is  told:  his  faith  in  the  things  he  had 
taught  had  been  little  better  than  that  which  hangs 
about  an  ancient  legend.  He  had  been  in  a  measure 
truthful ;  he  had  endeavoured  to  act  upon  what  he 
taught ;  but  alas  !  the  accidents  of  faith  had  so  often 
been  uppermost  with  him,  instead  of  its  eternal  funda- 
mental truths  !  How  unUke  the  affairs  of  the  kingdom 
did  all  that  church-business  look  to  him  now ! — the  ricia 
men  ruling — the  poor  men  grumbling  !  In  the  whole 
assembly,  including  himself,   could  he  honestly  say  he 


240  PAUL  FABER. 

knew  more  than  one  man  that  sought  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  yfrj-/?  And  yet  he  had  been  tolerably  content, 
until  they  began  to  turn  against  himself! — What  better 
could  they  have  done  than  get  rid  of  him  ?  The  whole 
history  of  their  relation  appeared  now  a  mess  of  untruth 
shot  through  with  threads  of  light.  Now,  now,  he  would 
strive  to  enter  in  at  the  strait  gate  :  the  question  was  not 
of  pushing  others  in.  He  would  mortify  tlie  spirit  of 
worldly  judgments  and  ambitions;  he  would  be  humble 
as  the  servant  of  Christ. 

Dorothy's  heart  was  relieved  a  little.  She  could  read 
her  father's  feelings  better  than  most  wives  those  of  their 
husbands,  and  she  knew  he  was  happier.  But  she  was 
not  herself  happier.  She  would  gladly  have  parted  with 
all  the  money  for  a  word  from  any  quarter  that  could 
have  assured  her  there  was  a  God  in  heaven  who  loved. 
But  the  teaching  of  the  curate  had  begun  to  tell  upon 
her.  She  had  hiegun  to  have  a  faint  perception  that  if 
the  story  of  Jesus  Christ  was  true,  there  might  be  a 
Father  to  be  loved,  and  being  might  be  a  bliss.  The 
poorest  glimmer  of  his  loveliness  gives  a  dawn  to  our 
belief  in  a  God ;  and  a  small  amount  indeed  of  genuine 
knowledge  of  liim  will  serve  to  neutralize  the  most  con- 
fident declaration  that  science  is  against  the  idea  of  a 
God — an  utterance  absolutely  false.  Scientific  men  may 
be  unbelievers,  but  it  is  not  from  the  teaching  of  science. 
Science  teaches  that  a  man  must  not  say  he  knows  what 
he  does  not  know ;  not  that  what  a  man  does  not  know 
he  may  say  does  not  exist.  I  will  grant,  however,  and 
willingly,  that  true  science  is  against  Faber's  idea  of 
other  people's  idea  of  a  God.  I  will  grant  also  that  the 
tendency  of  one  who  exclusively  studies  science  is  cer- 
tainly to  deny  wliat  no  one  has  proved,  and  he  is  unin- 
terested in  ])roving ;  but  that  is  the  fault  of  the  man  and 
his  lack  of  science,  not  of  the  science  he  has.  If  people 
imderstood  better  the  arrogance  of  which  they  are  them- 
selves guilty,  they  would  be  less  ready  to  imagine  that  a 
strong  assertion  necessarily  implies  knowledge.  Nothing 
ran  be  known  except  what  is  true.     A  negative  may  be 


COW-LANE-CIIAPEL.  241 

fad^  but  cannol:  be  known  except  by  the  knowledge  of  its 
opposite.  I  believe  also  that  nothing  can  be  really 
believed,  except  it  be  true.  But  people  think  they  believe 
many  things  which  they  do  not  and  cannot  in  the  real 
sense  believe. 

AMien,  however,  Dorothy  came  to  concern  herself 
about  the  will  of  God,  in  trying  to  help  her  father  to  do 
the  best  with  their  money,  she  began  to  reap  a  little 
genuine  comfort,  for  then  she  found  things  begin  to  ex- 
plain tliemselves  a  little.  The  more  a  man  occupies 
himself  in  doing  the  works  of  the  Father — the  sort  of 
thing  the  Father  does,  the  easier  will  he  iind  it  to  believe 
that  such  a  Father  is  at  work  in  the  world. 

In  the  curate  Mr.  Drake  had  found  not  only  a  man  he 
could  trust,  but  one  to  whom,  young  as  he  was,  he  could 
look  up ;  and  it  was  a  trait  in  the  minister  nothing  short 
of  noble,  that  he  did  look  up  to  the  curate — perhaps 
without  knowing  it.  He  had  by  this  time  all  but  lost 
sight  of  the  fact,  once  so  monstrous,  so  unchristian  in  his 
eyes,  that  he  was  the  paid  agent  of  a  government-churcli  : 
the  sight  of  the  man's  own  house,  built  on  a  rock  in 
which  was  a  well  of  the  water  of  life,  had  made  Iiim 
nearly  forget  it.  In  his  turn  he  could  give  the  curate 
much ;  the  latter  soon  discovered  that  he  knew  a  great 
deal  more  about  Old  Testament  criticism,  church-history, 
and  theology — understanding  by  the  last  the  records  of 
what  men  had  believed  and  argued  about  God — than  he 
did.  They  often  disagreed  and  not  seldom  disputed ; 
but  while  each  held  the  will  and  law  of  Christ  as  the 
very  foundation  of  the  world,  and  obedience  to  him  as 
the  way  to  possess  it  after  its  idea,  how  could  they  fail  to 
know  that  they  Avere  brothers  ?  They  were  gentle  with 
each  other  for  the  love  of  him  whom  in  eager  obedience 
they  called  Lord. 

The  moment  his  property  was  his  availably,  the 
minister  betook  himself  to  the  curate. 

"  Now,"  he  said — he  too  had  the  gift  of  going  pretty 
straight,  though  not  quite  so  straight  as  the  curate — "  Now, 

R 


242  PAUL  FABER. 

Mr.  Wingfold,  tell  me  plainly  what  )-ou  think  the  first 
thing  I  ought  to  do  with  this  money  towards  making 
it  a  true  gift  of  God.  I  mean,  what  can  I  do  with  it 
for  somebody  else — some  person  or  persons  to  whom 
money  in  my  hands,  not  in  theirs,  may  become  a  small 
saviour? 

"  You  want,  in  respect  of  your  money,"  rejoined  the 
curate,  "to  be  in  the  world  as  Christ  was  in  the  world, 
setting  right  what  is  wrong  in  ways  possible  to  you,  and 
not  counteracting  his  ?  You  want  to  do  the  gospel  as 
well  as  preach  it  ?'' 

"  That  is  what  I  mean— or  rather  what  I  wish  to  mean. 
You  have  said  it. — What  do  you  count  the  first  thing  I 
should  try  to  set  right  ?" 

"  I  should  say  iiijustkc.  jMy  very  soul  revolts  against 
the  talk  about  kindness  to  the  poor,  Avhen  such  a  great 
part  of  their  misery  comes  from  the  injustice  and  greed  o*" 
the  rich." 

"I  well  understand,"  returned  ]\Ir.  Drake,  "that  a 
man's  first  business  is  to  be  just  to  his  neighbour,  but  I 
do  not  so  clearly  see  when  he  is  to  interfere  to  make 
others  just.  Our  Lord  would  not  settle  the  division  of 
the  inheritance  between  the  two  brothers." 

"  No,  but  he  gave  them  a  lesson  concerning  avarice, 
and  left  that  to  work.  I  don't  suppose  anybody  is  unjust 
for  love  of  injustice.  I  don't  understand  the  pure  devilish 
very  well — though  I  have  glimpses  into  it.  Your  way 
must  be  different  from  our  Lord's  in  form,  that  it  may  be 
the  same  in  spirit:  you  have  to  work  with  money;  his 
father  had  given  him  none.  \\\  his  mission  he  was  not 
to  use  all  means — only  the  best.  But  even  he  did  not 
attack  individuals  to  make  them  do  right ;  and  if  you 
employ  your  money  in  doing  justice  to  the  oppressed 
and  afflicted,  to  those  shorn  of  the  commonest  rights  of 
humanity,  it  will  be  the  most  powerful  influence  of  all  to 
wake  the  sleeping  justice  in  the  dull  hearts  of  other  men. 
It  is  the  business  of  anybody  who  can,  to  set  right  what 
anybody    has   set  wrong.     I   will   give   you  a  special 


CO  JV-T.ANE-  CITAPET..  243 

instance,  which  lias  been  in  my  mind  all  the  time.  Last 
spring — and  it  was  the  same  the  spring  before,  my  first  in 
Cilaston — the  floods  brought  misery  upon  every  family  in 
what  they  call  the  Pottery  here.  How  some  of  them  get 
through  any  wet  season  I  cannot  think ;  but  Faber  will 
tell  you  what  a  multitude  of  sore  throats,  cases  of  croup, 
scarlet-fever,  and  diplitheria,  he  has  to  attend  in  those 
houses  every  spring  and  autumn.  They  are  crowded 
with  labourers  and  their  families,  who,  since  the  railway 
came,  have  no  choice  but  live  there,  and  pay  a  much 
heavier  rent  in  proportion  to  their  accommodation  than 
you  or  I  do — in  proportion  to  the  value  of  the  property, 
immensely  heavier.  Is  it  not  hard?  Men  are  their 
brothers'  keepers  indeed — but  it  is  in  chains  of  wretched- 
ness diey  keep  them.  Then  again — I  am  told  that  the 
owner  of  these  cottages,  who  draws  a  large  yearly  sum 
from  them,  and  to  the  entreaties  of  his  tenants  for  really 
needful  repairs,  gives  nothing  but  promises,  is  one  of  the 
most  influential  attendants  of  a  chapel  you  know,  where, 
Sunday  after  Sunday,  the  gospel  is  preached.  If  this 
be  true,  here  again  is  a  sad  wrong  :  what  can  those  people 
think  of  religion  so  represented  ?" 

"I  am  a  sinful  man,"  exclaimed  the  pastor.  "That 
Barwood  is  one  of  the  deacons.  He  is  the  owner  of  the 
chapel  as  well  as  the  cottages.  I  ought  to  have  spoken 
to  him  years  ago. — But,"  he  cried,  starting  to  his  feet, 
"  the  property  is  for  sale  !  I  saw  it  in  the  paper 
this  very  morning!  Thank  God!" — He  caught  uj) 
his  hat. — "  I  shall  have  no  choice  but  buy  the  chapel 
too,"  he  added,  with  a  queer,  humorous  smile  ;  " — it  is 
part  of  the  property. — Come  with  me,  my  dear  sir.  "W'c 
must  see  to  it  directly.  You  will  speak  :  1  would  rather 
not  appear  in  the  affair  until  the  property  is  my  own  ; 
but  I  will  buy  those  houses,  please  God,  and  make  them 
such  as  his  poor  sons  and  daughters  may  live  in  without 
fear  or  shame." 

The  curate  was  not  one  to  give  a  cold  bath  to  enthu- 
siasm. They  went  out  together,  got  all  needful  informa- 
R  2 


244  PAUL  FABER. 

tion,  and  within  a  month  the  title-deeds  were  in  Mr. 
Drake's  possession. 

When  the  rumour  reached  the  members  of  his  late 
congregation  that  he  had  come  in  for  a  large  property; 
many  called  to  congratulate  him,  and  such  congratula- 
tions are  pretty  sure  to  be  sincere.  Rut  he  was  both 
annoyed  and  amused  when — it  was  in  the  morning, 
during  business  hours — Dorothy  came  and  told  him,  not 
without  some  show  of  disgust,  that  a  deputation  from  the 
cliurch  in  Cow-lane  was  below. 

"  We've  taken  the  liberty  of  calling,  in  the  name  of  the 
church,  to  congratulate  you,  i>Ir.  Drake,"  said  their 
leader,  rising  with  the  rest  as  the  minister  entered  the 
dining-room. 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  the  minister  quietly. 

"  I  fancy,"  said  the  other,  who  was  Barwood  himself, 
with  a  smile  such  as  heralds  the  facetious,  "you  will 
hardly  condescend  to  receive  our  litde  gratuity  now  ?" 

"I  shall  not  require  it,  gentlemen." 

"  Of  course  we  should  never  have  offered  you  such  a 
small  sum,  if  we  hadn't  known  you  were  independent  ot 
us.' 

"  Why  then  did  you  offer  it  at  all  ?''  asked  the 
minister. 

"  As  a  token  of  our  regard." 

"  The  regard  could  not  be  very  li\-ely  that  made  no 
inquiry  as  to  our  circumstances.  My  daughter  had  twenty 
pounds  a  year ;  I  had  nothing.  We  were  in  no  small 
peril  of  simple  starvation." 

"  Bless  my  soul !  we  hadn't  an  idea  of  such  a  thing, 
sir  !     Why  didn't  you  tell  us  ?" 

Mr.  Drake  smiled,  and  made  no  other  reply. 

"Well,  sir,"  resumed  Barwood,  after  a  very  brief  pause, 
for  he  was  a  man  of  magnificent  assurance,  "as  it's  all 
turned  out  so  well,  )'ou'll  let  bygones  be  bygones,  and 
give  us  a  hand ?' 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  calling,"  said  Mr.  Drake, 
" — especially  to  you,  Mr,  Barwood,  because  it  gives  me 


COir-LAiVK-  CHAPEL.  245 

an  opportunity  of  confessing  a  foult  of  omission  on  my 
p.irt  towards  you." 

Here  the  j)astor  was  wrong.  Not  having  done  his  duty 
when  he  ought,  he  sliould  have  said  nothing  now  it  was 
needless  for  the  wronged,  and  Hkely  only  to  irritate  the 
wrong-doer. 

"  Don't  mention  it,  pray,"  said  Mr.  Barwood.  "  This 
is  a  time  to  forget  everything." 

"  I  ought  to  have  pointed  out  to  you,  Mr.  Barwood," 
pursued  the  minister,  "  both  for  your  own  sake  and  that 
of  those  poor  families,  your  tenants,  that  your  property 
in  this  lower  part  of  the  town  was  cjuite  unfit  for  the 
habitation  of  human  beings." 

"  Don't  let  your  conscience  trouble  you  on  the  score 
of  that  neglect,"  answered  the  deacon,  his  face  flushing 
with  anger,  while  he  tried  to  force  a  smile  :  "  I  shouldn't 
have  paid  the  least  attention  to  it  if  you  had.  My  firm 
opinion  has  always  been  that  a  minister's  duty  is  to 
preach  the  gospel,  not  meddle  in  the  private  affairs  of 
the  niembers  of  his  church ;  and  if  you  knew  all,  Mr. 
Drake,  you  would  not  have  gone  out  of  your  way  to 
make  the  remark.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there,  for 
it's  not  the  business  as  we've  come  upon. — Mr.  Drake,  it's 
a  clear  thing  to  every  one  as  looks  into  it,  that  the  cause 
will  never  prosper  so  long  as  that's  the  chapel  we've 
got.  We  did  think  as  perhaps  a  younger  man  might  do 
something  to  counteract  church-influences  ;  but  there 
don't  seem  any  sign  of  betterment  yet.  In  fact,  things 
looks  worse.  No,  sir  !  it's  the  chapel  as  is  the  stumbling- 
block.  What  has  religion  got  to  do  with  what's  ugly  and 
dirty  !  A  place  that  any  lady  or  gentleman,  let  he  or  she 
be  ever  so  much  of  a  Christian,  might  turn  up  the  nose 
and  refrain  the  foot  from  !  No  !  1  say  ;  what  we  want  is 
a  new  place  of  worship.  Cow-lane  is  behind  the  age — 
and  that  musty  !  uw  !' 

"With  the  words  of  truth  left  sticking  on  the  walls?" 
suggested  Mr.  Drake. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! — Good  that !"  exclaimed  several. 


S46  FAUL  FABER. 

But  the  pastor's  face  looked  stern,  and  the  voices 
dropped  into  rebuked  silence. 

"At  least  you'll  allow,  sir,"  persisted  Barwood, 
"  that  the  house  of  God  ought  to  be  as  good  as  tlie 
houses  of  his  people.  It  stands  to  reason.  Depend  upon 
it,  he  won't  give  us  no  success  till  we  give  him  a  decent 
house.  What !  are  we  to  dwell  in  houses  of  cedar,  and 
the  ark  of  the  Lord  in  a  tent  ?  That's  what  it  comes  to, 
sir  !" 

The  pastor's  spiritual  gorge  rose  at  this  paganism  in 
Jew  clothing. 

"  You  think  God  loves  newness  and  finery  better  than 
the  old  walls  where  generations  have  worshipped  ?"  he 
said. 

"  I  make  no  doubt  of  it,  sir,"'  answered  Barwood. 
"What's  generations  to  him!  He  wants  the  people 
drawn  to  his  house ;  and  what  there  is  in  Cow-lane  to 
draw  is  more  than  I  know." 

"  I  miderstand  you  wish  to  sell  die  chapel,"  said  Mr. 
Drake.  "Is  it  not  rather  imprudent  to  bring  down 
the  value  of  your  property  before  you  have  got  rid 
of  it?" 

Barwood  smiled  a  superior  smile.  He  considered  the 
bargain  safe,  and  thought  the  purchaser  a  man  who 
v/as  certain  to  pull  the  chapel  down. 

"I  know  Avho  the  intending  purchaser  is,"  said  Mr. 
Drake,  "  and " 

Barwood's  countenance  changed  :  he  bethought  him- 
self that  the  conveyance  was  not  completed,  and  half 
started  from  his  chair. 

"  You  would  never  go  to  do  such  an  unneighbourly 
act,"  he  cried,  "as " 

" — As  conspire  to  bring  down  the  value  of  a  property 
the  moment  it  had  passed  out  of  my  hands  ? — I  would 
not,  Mr.  Barwood ;  and  this  very  day  the  intending 
purchaser  shall  know  of  your  project." 

Barwood  locked  his  teeth  together,  and  grinned  with 
rage.     He  jumped  from  his  seat,  knocked  it  over  in 


COW-LANE-CHAPEL.  247 

getting  his  hat  from  under  it,  and  rushed  out  of  the 
house.  Mr.  Drake  smiled,  and  looking  cahiily  round  on 
the  rest  of  the  deacons,  held  his  peace.  It  was  a  very 
awkward  moment  for  them.  At  length  one  of  them,  a 
Bmall  tradesman,  ventured  to  speak.  He  dared  make 
no  allusion  to  the  catastrophe  that  had  occurred.  _  It 
would  take  much  reflection  to  get  hold  of  the  true  weight 
and  bearing  of  what  they  had  just  heard  and  seen,  for 
Barwood  was  a  mighty  man  among  them. 

"What  we  were  thinking,  sir,"  he  said,  "—and  you 
will  please  to  remember,  Mr.  Drake,  that  I  was  always 
on  your  side,  and  it's  better  to  come  to  the  point :  there's 
a  strong  party  of  us  in  the  church,  sir,  that  would  like  to 
have  you  back,  and  we  was  thinking  if  you  would  con- 
descend to  help  us,  now  as  you're  so  well  able  to,  sir, 
towards  a  new  chapel,  now  as  you  have  the  means,  as 
well  as  the  will,  to  do  God  service,  sir,  what  with  the 
chapel-building  society,  and  every  man-jack  of  us  setting 
our  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  and  we  should  all  do  our  very 
best,  we  should  get  a  nice,  new,  I  won't  say  showy,  but 
attractive— that's  the  word,  attractive  place — not  gaudy, 
you  know,  I  never  would  give  in  to  that,  but  ornamental 
too— and  in  a  word,  attractive— that's  it — a  place  to 
which  the  people  would  be  drawn  by  the  look  of  it 
outside,  and  kep'  by  the  look  of  it  inside— a  place  as 
would  make  the  people  of  Glaston  say,  '  Come,  and  let 
us  go  up  to  the  house  of  the  Lord,'— if,  with  your  help, 
sir,  we  had  such  a  place,  then  perhaps  you  would  conde- 
scend to  take  the  reins  again,  sir,  and  we  should  then 
pay  Mr.  Rudd  as  your  assistant,  leaving  the  whole 
management  in  your  hands— to  preach  when  you  pleased, 
and  leave  it  alone  when  you  didn't.— There,  sir !  I  think 
that's  much  the  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell." 

"And  now  will  you  tell  me  what  result  you  would 
look  for  under  such  an  arrangement  ?" 

"We  should  look  for  the  blessing  of  a  little  success  j 
it's  a  many  years  since  we  was  favoured  with  any." 

"  And  by  success  you  mean ?" 


24S  PAUL  FABER. 

"  A  large  attendance  of  regular  hearers  in  the  morning 
— not  a  seat  to  let ! — and  the  people  of  Glaston  crowd- 
ing to  hear  the  word  in  the  evening,  and  going  away 
because  they  can't  get  a  foot  inside  the  place  !  That's 
the  success  /should  like  to  see." 

"  What !  would  you  have  all  Glaston  such  as  your- 
selves !"  exclaimed  the  pastor  indignantly.  '-Gentlemen, 
this  is  the  crowning  humiliation  of  my  life!  Yet  I  am 
glad  of  it,  because  I  deserve  it,  and  it  will  help  to  make 
and  keep  me  humble.  I  see  in  you  the  wood  and  hay 
and  stubble  with  which,  alas !  I  have  been  building  all 
these  years  I  I  have  been  preaching  dissent  instead  of 
Christ,  and  there  you  are  ! — dissenters  indeed — but  can 
I — can  I  call  you  Christians  ?  Assuredly  do  I  believe 
the  form  of  your  church  that  ordained  by  the  ajjostles, 
but  woe  is  me  for  the  material  whereof  it  is  built  !  ^Vere 
I  to  aid  your  plans  with  a  single  penny  in  the  hope  ot 
withdrawing  one  inhabitant  of  Glaston  from  the  preach- 
ing of  Mr.  \Vingfold,  a  man  who  speaks  the  truth  and 
fears  nobody,  as  I,  alas  !  have  feared  you,  because  of 
your  dulness  of  heart  and  slowness  of  understanding, 
I  should  be  doing  the  body  of  Christ  a  grievous  wrong. 
I  have  been  as  one  beating  the  air  in  talking  to  you 
against  episcopacy  when  I  ought  to  have  been  preaching 
against  dishonesty;  eulogizing  Congregationalism,  when 
I  ought  to  have  been  training  you  in  the  three  abiding 
graces,  and  chiefly  in* the  greatest  of  them,  charity.  I 
have  taken  to  pieces  and  put  together  for  you  the  plan 
of  salvation,  when  I  ought  to  have  spoken  only  of  him 
who  is  the  way  and  the  truth  and  the  life.  I  have  been 
losing  my  life,  and  helping  you  to  lose  yours.  But  go  to 
the  abbey  church,  and  there  a  man  will  stir  you  up  to  lay 
hold  upon  God,  will  teach  you  to  know  Christ,  each  man 
for  himself  and  not  for  another.  Shut  up  your  chapel, 
put  off  your  scheme  of  a  new  one,  go  to  the  abbey 
church,  and  be  filled  with  the  finest  of  the  wheat.  Then 
should  this  man  depart,  and  one  of  the  common  epis- 
copal train,  whose  God  is  the  church,  and  whose  neigh- 


CO  IV-LANE- CHAPEL.  249 

hour  is  the  order  of  the  priesthood,  come  to  take  his  place, 
and  preach  against  dissent  as  I  have  so  fooHshly  preaclied 
against  the  church— then,  and  not  till  then,  will  the  time 
be  to  gather  together  your  savings  and  build  yourselves 
a  house  to  pray  in.  Then,  if  I  am  alive,  as  I  hope 
I  shall  not  be,  come,  and  I  will  aid  your  purpose 
liberally.  Do  not  mistake  me  :  I  believe  as  strongly  as 
ever  I  did  that  the  constitution  of  the  church  of  England 
is  all  wrong  ;  that  the  arrogance  and  assumption  of  her 
priesthood  is  essentially  opposed  to  the  very  idea  of  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  ;  that  the  Athanasian  creed  is  unin- 
telligible, and  where  intelligible,  cruel  ;  but  where  I  find 
my  Lord  preached  as  only  one  who  understands  him  can 
preach  him,  and  as  I  never  could  preach  him,  and  never 
heard  him  preached  before,  even  faults  great  as  those  shall 
be  to  me  as  merest  accidents.  Gentlemen,  everything  is 
pure  loss — chapels  and  creeds  and  churches — all  is  loss 
that  comes  between  us  and  Christ — individually,  master- 
fully. And  of  unchristian  things  one  of  the  most  unchris- 
tian is  to  dispute  and  separate  in  the  name  of  him  whose 
one  object  was,  and  whose  one  victory  will  be  unity. — 
Gentlemen,  if  you  should  ever  ask  me  to  preach  to  you, 
I  will  do  so  with  pleasure." 

They  rose  as  one  man,  bade  him  an  embarrassed  good 
morning,  and  walked  from  the  room,  some  with  their 
lieads  thrown  back,  others  hanging  them  forward  in 
worshipful  shame.  The  former  spread  the  rumour  that 
the  old  minister  had  gone  crazy,  the  latter  began  to  go 
now  and  then  to  church. 

I  may  here  mention,  as  I  shall  have  no  other  oppor- 
tunity, that  a  new  chapel  was  not  built ;  that  the  young 
pastor  soon  left  the  old  one ;  that  the  deacons  declartd 
themselves  unable  to  pay  the  rent ;  that  Mr.  Drake  took 
the  place  into  his  own  hands,  and  preached  there  every 
Sunday  evening,  but  went  always  in  the  morning  to  hear 
Mr  Wingfold.  There  was  kindly  human  work  of  many 
sorts  done  by  them  in  concert,  and  each  felt  the  other  a 
true  support.    When  the  pastor  and  the  parson  chanced  to 


250  PAUL  FABER. 

meet  in  some  lowly  cottage,  it  was  never  with  embariass- 
rnent  or  apology,  as  if  they  served  two  masters,  but 
always  with  hearty  and  glad  greeting,  and  tliey  always 
went  away  together.  I  doubt  if  v.'ickedness  does  half  as 
much  harm  as  sectarianism,  Avhethcr  it  be  the  sectarianism 
of  the  church  or  of  dissent,  the  sectarianism  whose  virtue 
is  condescension,  or  the  sectarianism  whose  vice  is 
pride.  Division  has  done  more  to  hide  Christ  from  the 
view  of  men,  than  all  the  infidelity  that  has  ever  been 
spoken.  It  is  the  half-Christian  clergy  of  every  denomi- 
nation that  are  the  main  cause  of  the  so-called  failure 
of  the  church  of  Christ.  Thank  God,  it  has  not  failed  so 
miserably  as  to  succeed  in  the  estimation  or  to  the  satis- 
faction of  any  party  in  it. 

But  it  was  not  merely  in  relation  to  forms  of  church 
government  that  the  heart  of  the  pastor  now  in  his  old 
age  began  to  widen.  It  is  foolish  to  say  that  after  a 
certain  age  a  man  cannot  alter.  That  some  men  cannot 
— or  will  not,  (God  only  can  draw  the  line  between  those 
two  mis)  I  allow ;  but  the  cause  is  not  age,  and  it  is  not 
universal.  The  man  who  does  not  care  and  ceases  to 
grow,  becomes  torpid,  stiffens,  is  in  a  sense  dead ;  but  he 
who  has  been  growing  all  the  time  needs  never  stop ; 
and  where  growth  is,  there  is  always  capability  of  change  : 
growth  itself  is  a  succession  of  slow  melodious  ascending 
changes. 

The  very  next  Sunday  after  the  visit  of  their  deputa- 
tion to  him,  the  church  in  Cow-lane  asked  their  old 
minister  to  preach  to  them.  Dorothy,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  went  with  her  fixther,  although,  dearly  as  she  loved 
him,  she  would  have  much  preferred  hearing  what  tlie 
curate  had  to  say.  The  pastor's  text  was,  Yc  pay  iithe  o^ 
mint  and  anise  and  cummin,  and  have  omitted  the  wcii^^Jiticr 
matters  of  the  laiv— judgment,  mercy,  and  faith.  In  his 
sermon  he  enforced  certain  of  the  dogmas  of  a  theology 
which  once  expressed  more  truth  than  falsehood,  but  now 
at  least  conveys  more  falsehood  than  truth,  because  of  the 
changed  conditions  of  those  who  teach  and  those  who 


COir-LANE-  CHAPEL.  251 

hear  it ;  for,  even  where  liis  foith  had  been  vital  enougli 
to  burst  the  verbally  rigid,  formal,  and  indeed  spiritually 
vulgar  theology  he  had  been  taught,  his  intellect  had  not 
been  strong  enough  to  cast  oft"  the  husks.  His  expressions, 
assertions,  and  arguments,  tying  up  a  bundle  of  mighty 
trudi  with  cords  taken  from  the  lumber-room  and  the  ash- 
pit, grazed  severely  the  tenderer  nature  of  his  daughter. 
AVhen  they  reached  the  house,  and  she  found  herself 
alone  with  her  father  in  his  study,  she  broke  suddenly 
into  passionate  complaint — not  that  he  should  so  repre- 
sent God,  seeing,  for  what  she  knew,  he  might  indeed  be 
such,  but  that,  so  representing  God,  he  should  expect  men 
to  love  him.  It  was  not  often  that  her  sea,  however 
troubled  in  its  depths,  rose  into  such  visible  storm.  She 
threw  herself  upon  the  floor  with  a  loud  cry,  and  lay 
sobbing  and  weeping.  Her  father  was  terribly  startled, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  stunned ;  then  a  faint  slow 
hght  began  to  break  in  upon  him,  and  he  stood  silent, 
sad,  and  thoughtful.  He  knew  that  he  loved  God,  yet 
in  what  he  said  concerning  him,  in  the  impression  he 
gave  of  him,  there  was  that  which  prevented  the  best 
daughter  in  the  world  from  loving  her  Father  in  heaven  1 
He  began  to  see  that  he  had  never  really  thought  about 
these  things ;  he  had  been  taught  them  but  had  never 
turned  them  over  in  the  light,  never  perceived  the  fact, 
that,  however  much  truth  might  be  there,  there  also  was 
what  at  least  looked  like  a  fearful  lie  against  Ciod.  For 
a  moment  he  gazed  with  keen  compassion  on  his  daughter 
as  she  lay,  actually  writhing  in  her  agony,  then  knelt 
beside  her,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  her,  said  gently : — 

"Well,  my  dear,  if  those  things  are  not  true,  my  saying 
them  will  not  make  them  so." 

She  sprung  to  her  feet,  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
kissed  him,  and  left  the  room.  The  minister  remained 
upon  his  knees. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


THE    DOCTORS    HOUSE, 


>HE  holidays  came,  and  Juliet  took  advantage 
of  them  to  escape  from  what  had  begun  to 
be  a  bondage  to  her — the  daily  inter- 
course with  people  who  disapproved  of 
the  man  she  loved.  In  her  thoughts 
even  she  took  no  intellectual  position 
against  them  with  regard  to  what  she  called  doctrine,  and 
Faber  superstition.  Her  father  had  believed  as  they  did ; 
she  clung  to  his  memory ;  perhaps  she  believed  as  he  did; 
she  could  not  tell.  There  was  time  yet  wherein  to  make 
up  her  mind.  She  had  certainly  believed  so  once,  she 
said  to  herself,  and  she  might  so  believe  again.  She 
would  have  been  at  first  highly  offended,  but  the  next 
moment  a  little  pleased  at  being  told  that  in  reality  she 
had  never  believed  one  whit  more  than  Faber,  that  she 
was  at  present  indeed  incapable  of  believing.  Probably 
she  would  have  replied,  "Then  wherein  am  I  to  blame?" 
But  although  a  woman  who  sits  with  her  child  in  her  arms 
in  the  midst  of  her  burning  house,  half  asleep,  and  half 
stifled  and  dazed  with  the  fierce  smoke,  may  not  be  to 
blame,  certainly  the  moment  she  is  able  to  excuse  herself 
she  is  bound  to  make  for  the  door.  So  long  as  men  do 
not  feel  that  they  are  in  a  bad  condition  and  in  danger  ot 
worse,  the  message  of  deliverance  will  sound  to  them  as 


THE  DOCTOR'S  HOUSE.  253 

a  threat.  Yea,  the  offer  of  absohite  well-being  upon  the 
only  possible  conditions  of  the  well-being  itself,  must,  if 
heard  at  all,  rouse  in  them  a  discomfort  whose  cause  they 
attribute  to  the  message,  not  to  themselves ;  and  immc 
diately  they  will  endeavour  to  justify  themselves  in  dis- 
regarding it.  There  are  those  doing  all  they  can  to 
strengtlicn  themselves  in  unbelief,  who,  if  the  Lord  were 
to  appear  plainly  before  their  eyes,  would  tell  him  they 
could  not  help  it,  for  he  had  not  until  then  given  them 
ground  enougli  for  faith,  and  when  he  left  them,  would 
go  on  just  as  before,  except  that  they  would  speculate 
and  pride  themselves  on  the  vision.  If  men  say,  "  We 
want  no  such  deliverance,"  then  the  maker  of  them  must 
either  destroy  them  as  vile  things  for  whose  existence  he  is 
to  himself  accountable,  or  compel  them  to  change.  If  they 
say,  '•  We  choose  to  be  destroyed,"  he,  as  their  maker, 
has  a  choice  in  the  matter  too.  Is  he  not  free  to  say, 
"  You  cannot  even  slay  yourselves,  and  I  choose  that  you 
shall  know  the  deatli  of  living  without  me ;  you  shall 
learn  to  choose  to  live  indeed.  I  choose  that  you  shall 
know  what  /  knoic  to  be  good"?  And  however  much 
any  individual  consciousness  may  rebel,  surely  the  indivi- 
dual consciousness  which  called  that  other  into  being, 
and  is  the  father  of  that  being,  fit  to  be  such  because  of 
himself  he  is  such,  has  a  right  to  object  that  by  rebellion 
liis  creature  should  destroy  the  very  power  by  which  it 
rebels,  and  from  a  being  capable  of  a  divine  freedom  by 
partaking  of  the  divine  nature,  should  make  of  itself  the 
merest  slave  incapable  of  will  of  any  sort !  Is  it  a  wrong 
to  compel  his  creature  to  soar  aloft  into  the  aether  of  its 
origin,  and  find  its  deepest,  its  only  true  self?  It  is  God's 
knowing  choice  of  life  against  man's  ignorant  choice  of 
death. 

But  Juliet  knew  nothing  of  such  a  region  of  strife  in 
the  human  soul.  She  had  no  suspicion  what  an  awful 
swamp  lay  around  the  prison  of  the  self-content — no,  seif- 
discontent — in  which  she  lay  chained.  To  her  the  one 
good  and  desirable  thing  was  the  love  and  company  of 


254  FAUL  FABER. 

Paul  Faber.  He  was  licr  saviour,  she  said  to  herself,  and 
the  woman  who  could  not  love  and  trust  and  lean  upon 
such  a  heart  of  devotion  and  unselfishness  as  his,  was 
unworthy  of  the  smallest  of  his  thoughts.  He  was 
nobility,  generosity,  justice  itself!  If  she  sought  to  lay 
her  faults  bare  to  him,  he  would  but  fold  her  to  his  bosom 
to  shut  them  out  from  her  own  vision  !  He  would  but 
lay  his  hand  on  the  lips  of  confession,  and  silence  them 
as  unbelievers  in  his  perfect  affection  !  He  was  better 
than  the  God  the  Wingfolds  and  Drakes  believed  in,  with 
whom  humiliation  was  a  condition  of  acceptance  ! 

She  told  the  Drakes  that,  for  the  air  of  Owlkirk,  she 
was  going  to  occupy  her  old  quarters  with  Mrs.  Puckridge 
during  the  holidays.  They  were  not  much  surprised,  for 
they  had  remarked  a  change  in  her  manner,  and  it  was 
not  long  unexplained  ;  for,  walking  from  the  Old  House 
together  one  evening  rather  late,  they  met  her  with  the 
doctor  in  a  little  frequented  part  of  the  park.  When  she 
left  them,  they  knew  she  would  not  return ;  and  her  tears 
betrayed  that  she  knew  it  also. 

Meantime  the  negotiation  for  the  purchase  of  the  Old 
House  of  Glaston  was  advancing  with  slow  legal  sinuosity. 
]\Ir.  Drake  had  offered  the  full  value  of  the  property,  and 
the  tender  seemed  to  be  regarded  not  unfavourably.  But 
his  heart  and  mind  were  far  more  occupied  with  the 
humbler  property  he  had  already  secured  in  the  town  : 
that  was  now  to  be  fortified  against  the  incursions  of  the 
river,  with  its  attendant  fevers  and  agues.  A  survey  of 
the  ground  had  satisfied  him  that  a  wall  at  a  certain  point 
would  divert  a  great  portion  of  the  water,  and  this  wall 
he  proceeded  at  once  to  build.  He  hoped  in  the  end  to 
enclose  the  ground  altogether,  or  at  least  to  defend  it  at 
every  assailable  point,  but  there  were  many  other  changes 
imperative,  with  difficulties  such  that  they  could  not  all 
be  coped  with  at  once.  The  worst  of  the  cottages  must 
be  pulled  down,  and  as  they  were  all  e\'en  over-full,  he 
must  contrive  to  build  first.     Nor  until  that  was  done, 


THE  DOCTOR'S  HOUSE.  255 

could  he  eftect  much  towards  rendering  the  best  of  them 
fit  for  liuman  habitation. 

Some  of  the  householders  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
adjoining  street  shook  tlieir  heads  when  they  saw  what 
the  bricklayers  were  about.  They  had  reason  to  fear  they 
were  turning  the  water  more  upon  them  ;  and  it  seemed  a 
wrong  that  the  wretched  cottages  which  had  from  time 
immemorial  been  accustomed  to  the  water,  should  be  now 
protected  from  it  at  the  cost  of  respectable  houses  ?  It  did 
not  occur  to  them  that  it  might  be  time  for  Lady  Fortune 
to  give  her  Avheel  a  few  inches  of  a  turn.  To  common 
minds,  custom  is  always  right  so  long  as  it  is  on  their  side. 

In  the  meantime  the  chapel  in  the  park  at  Nestley  had 
been  advancing,  for  the  rector,  who  was  by  nature  no 
dawdler  where  he  was  interested,  had  been  pushing  it  on  ; 
and  at  length  on  a  certain  .Sunday  evening  in  the  autunm, 
the  people  of  the  neighbourhood  having  been  invited  to  at- 
tend, the  rector  read  prayers  in  it,  and  the  curate  preached 
a  sermon.  At  the  close  of  the  service  the  congrega- 
tion was  informed  that  prayers  would  be  read  there  every 
Sunday  evening,  and  that  was  all.  Mrs.  Bevis,  honest 
soul,  the  green-mantled  pool  of  whose  being  might  well 
desire  a  wind,  if  only  from  a  pair  of  bellows,  to  disturb 
its  repose,  for  not  a  fish  moved  to  that  end  in  its  sunless 
deeps — I  say  deeps,  for  such  there  must  have  been, 
although  neither  she  nor  her  friends  were  acquainted  with 
anything  there  but  shallows— was  the  only  one  inclined 
to  grumble  at  the  total  absence  of  ceremonial  pomp  : 
alie  did  want  her  husband  to  have  the  credit  of  the  great 
deed. 

About  the  same  time  it  was  that  Juliet  again  sought 
the  cottage  at  Owlkirk,  with  the  full  consciousness  that 
she  went  there  to  meet  her  fate.  Faber  came  to  see  her 
every  day,  and  both  Ruber  and  Niger  began  to  grow 
skinny.  But  I  have  already  said  enough  to  show  the 
nature  and  course  of  the  stream,  and  am  not  bound  to 
linger  longer  over  its  noise  among  the  pebbles.     Some 


256  PAUL  FABER. 

things  are  interesting  rather  for  their  results  tlian  their 
process,  and  of  such  I  confess  is  to  me  the  love-making  of 
these  two. — "  What  !  Avere  they  not  human  ?"  Yes ;  but 
with  a  truncated  humanity — ever  shorn  of  its  flower-buds, 
and  full  only  of  variegated  leaves.  It  shall  suffice  there- 
fore to  say  that,  in  a  will-less  sort  of  way,  Juliet  let  the 
matter  drift;  that,  although  she  withheld  explicit  consent, 
she  yet  at  length  allowed  Faber  to  speak  as  if  she  had 
given  it ;  that  they  had  long  ceased  to  talk  about  God  or 
no  God,  about  life  and  death,  about  truth  and  supersti- 
tion, and  spoke  only  of  love,  and  the  days  at  hand,  and 
how  they  would  spend  them  ;  that  they  poured  out  their 
hearts  in  praising  and  worshipping  each  other ;  and  that, 
at  last,  Juliet  found  herself  as  firmly  engaged  to  be 
Paul's  wife,  as  if  she  had  granted  every  one  of  the 
promises  he  had  sought  to  draw  from  her,  but  which  she 
had  avoided  giving  in  the  weak  fancy  that  thus  she  was 
holding  herself  free.  It  was  perfectly  understood  in  all  the 
neighbourhood  that  the  doctor  and  Miss  Meredith  were 
engaged.  Both  Helen  and  Dorothy  felt  a  little  hurt  at 
her  keeping  an  absolute  silence  towards  them  concern- 
ing what  the  country  seemed  to  know ;  but  when  they 
spoke  of  it  to  her,  she  pointedly  denied  any  engagement, 
and  indeed,  although  helplessly  drifting  towards  mar- 
riage, had  not  yet  given  absolute  consent  even  in  her 
own  mind.  She  dared  not  even  then  regard  it  as  inevi- 
table. Her  two  friends  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she 
could  not  find  the  courage  to  face  disapproval,  and  per- 
haps feared  expostulation. 

"  She  may  well  be  ashamed  of  such  an  unequal  yoking !" 
said  Helen  to  her  husband. 

"  There  is  no  unequal  yoking  in  it  that  I  see,"  he  re- 
turned. "  In  the  matter  of  faith,  what  is  there  to  choose 
between  them  ?  I  see  nothing.  They  may  carry  the  yoke 
straight  enough.  If  there  be  one  of  them  farther  from  the 
truth  than  the  other,  it  must  be  the  one  who  says,  I  go, 
sir,  and  goes  not.  Between  don'i  bdiere  and  don't  care,  T 
don't  care  to  choose.     Let  them  marry  and  God  bless 


THE  DOCTOR'S  HOUSE.  257 

tliem.  It  will  be  good  for  them — for  one  thing  if  for  no 
other — it  is  sure  to  bring  trouble  to  both." 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Wingfold  !"  returned  Helen  pb.ylally. 
"  So  that  is  how  you  regard  marriage  ! — Sure  to  bring 
trouble  !" 

She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Trouble  to  every  one,  my  Helen,  like  the  gospel 
itself;  more  trouble  to  you  than  to  me,  but  none  to  either 
that  will  not  serve  to  bring  us  closer  to  each  other,"  he 
answered.  "  But  about  those  two — well,  I  am  both 
doubtful  and  hopeful.  At  all  events  I  cannot  wish  them 
not  to  marry.  I  think  it  will  be  for  both  of  them  a  step 
nearer  to  the  truth.  The  trouble  will,  perhaps,  drive 
them  to  find  God.  That  any  one  who  had  seen  and 
loved  our  Lord,  should  consent  to  marry  one,  whatever 
that  one  was  besides,  who  did  not  at  least  revere  and 
try  to  obey  him,  seems  to  me  impossible.  But  again  I 
say  there  is  no  such  matter  involved  between  them.— 
Shall  I  confess  to  you.  that,  with  all  her  frankness,  all  her 
charming  ways,  all  the  fulness  of  the  gaze  with  which  her 
black  eyes  look  into  yours,  there  is  a  something  about 
Juliet  that  puzzles  me  ?  At  times  I  have  thought  she 
must  be  in  some  trouble,  out  of  which  she  was  on  the 
point  of  asking  me  to  help  her  ;  at  others  I  have  fancied 
she  was  trying  to  be  agreeable  against  her  inclination, 
and  did  not  more  than  half  approve  of  me.  Sometimes, 
I  confess,  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  crosses  me — is  she 
altogether  a  true  woman  ?  But  that  vanishes  the  moment 
she  smiles.  I  wish  she  could  have  been  open  with  me. 
I  could  have  helped  her,  I  am  pretty  sure.  As  it  is,  I 
have  not  got  one  step  nearer  the  real  woman  than  when 
first  I  saw  her  at  the  rector's." 

"  I  know,"  said  Helen.  "  But  don't  you  think  it  may 
be  that  she  has  never  yet  come  to  know  anything  about 
herself — to  perceive  either  fact  or  mystery  of  her  own 
nature  ?  If  she  is  a  stranger  to  herself,  she  cannot 
reveal  herself — at  least  of  her  own  will — to  those  about 
her.  She  is  just  what  I  was,  Thomas,  before  I  knew 
s 


2S8  PAUL  FABER. 

you — a  dull  sleepy-nearted  thing  that  sat  on  her  dig- 
nity. Be  sure  she  has  not  an  idea  of  the  divine  truth 
you  have  taught  me  to  see  underlying  creation  itself — 
namely,  that  everything  possessed  owes  its  very  value  as 
possession  to  the  power  which  that  possession  gives  of 
parting  with  it." 

"  You  are  a  pupil  worth  having,  Helen  !— even  if  I 
liad  had  to  mourn  all  my  days  that  you  would  not  love 
me." 

"  And  now  you  have  said  your  mind  about  Juliet," 
Helen  went  on,  "  allow  me  to  say  that  I  trust  her  more 
than  I  do  Faber.  I  do  not  for  a  moment  imagine  him 
consciously  dishonest,  but  he  makes  too  much  show  of 
his  honesty  for  me.  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  he  is 
selfish — and  can  a  selfish  man  be  honest  ?" 

"  Not  thoroughly.  I  know  that  only  too  well,  for  I  at 
all  events  am  selfish,  Helen." 

"  I  don't  see  it ;  but  if  you  are,  you  know  it,  and  hate 
it,  and  strive  against  it.  I  do  not  think  he  knows  it, 
even  when  he  says  that  everybody  is  selfish.  Only,  what 
better  way  to  get  rid  of  it  than  to  love  and  marry  ?" 

"  Or  to  confirm  it,"  said  Wingfold  thoughtfull3\ 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if  they're  married  already  !" 
said  Helen. 

She  was  not  far  wrong,  although  not  quite  right. 
Already  Faber  had  more  than  hinted  at  a  hurried 
marriage,  as  private  as  could  be  compassed.  It  was 
impossible,  of  course,  to  be  married  at  church.  That 
would  be  to  cast  mockery  on  the  marriage  itself,  as  well 
as  on  what  Faber  called  his  beliefs.  The  objection  was 
entirely  on  Faber's  side,  but  Juliet  did  not  hint  at  the 
least  difterence  of  feeling  in  the  matter.  Slie  let  every- 
thing take  its  way  now. 

At  length  having,  in  a  neighbouring  town,  arranged 
all  the  necessary  preliminaries,  Faber  got  one  of  the 
other  doctors  in  Glaston  to  attend  to  his  practice  for 
three  weeks,  r,nd  went  to  take  a  holiday.  Juliet  left 
Owlkirk  the  same  day.     They  met,  were  lawfully  married, 


THE  DOCTOR'S  HOUSE.  259 

and  at  the  close  of  the  three  weeks,  returned  together  to 
the  doctor's  house. 

Tlie  sort  of  thing  did  not  please  Glaston  society,  and 
although  Faber  was  too  popular  as  a  doctor  to  lose 
position  by  it,  Glaston  was  slow  in  acknowledging  tbnt 
it  knew  there  was  a  lady  at  the  head  of  his  house.  Mrs. 
Wingfold  and  Miss  Drake,  however,  set  their  neighbours 
a  good  example,  and  by  degrees  there  came  about  a 
dribbling  sort  of  recognition.  Their  social  superiors 
stood  the  longest  aloof— chiefly  because  the  lady  had 
been  a  governess,  and  yet  had  behaved  so  like  one  of 
themselves  :  they  thought  it  well  to  give  her  a  lesson. 
Most  of  them,  however,  not  willing,  to  offend  the  leading 
doctor  in  the  place,  yielded  and  called.  Two  elderly 
spinsters  and  Mrs.  Ramshorn  did  not.  The  latter 
declared  she  did  not  believe  they  were  married.  Most 
agreed  they  were  the  handsomest  couple  ever  seen  in 
that  quarter,  and  looked  all  right. 

Juliet  returned  the  calls  made  upon  her,  at  the  proper 
retaliatory  intei-vals,  and  gradually  her  mode  of  existence 
fell  into  routine.  The  doctor  went  out  every  day,  and 
was  out  most  of  the  day,  while  she  sat  at  home  and 
worked  or  read.  She  had  to  amuse  herself,  and  some- 
times found  life  duller  than  when  she  had  to  earn  her 
bread — when,  as  she  went  from  place  to  place,  she  might 
at  any  turn  meet  Paul  upon  Ruber  or  Niger.  Already 
the  weary  weed  of  the  commonplace  had  begun  to  show 
itself  in  the  marriage  garden — a  weed  which,  like  all 
weeds,  requires  only  neglect  for  perfect  development, 
when  it  will  drive  the  lazy  Eve  who  has  never  made  her 
life  worth  living,  to  ask  whether  life  be  worth  /lavi/ig. 
She  was  not  a  great  reader.  No  book  had  ever  yet  been 
to  her  a  well-spring  of  life  ;  and  such  books  as  she  liked 
best  it  was  perhaps  just  as  well  that  she  could  not  easily 
procure  in  Glaston ;  for,  always  ready  to  appreciate  the 
noble,  she  had  not  moral  discernment  sufficient  to  pro- 
tect her  from  the  influences  of  such  books  as  paint  poor 
action  in  noble  colour.  For  a  time  also  she  was  stinted 
s  2 


26o  PAUL  FABER. 

in  her  natural  nourishment :  her  husband  had  ordered  a 
grand  piano  from  London  for  her,  but  it  had  not  yet 
arrived ;  and  the  first  touch  she  laid  on  the  tall  spinster- 
looking  one  that  had  stood  in  the  drawing-room  for  fifty 
years,  with  red  silk  wrinkles  radiating  from  a  gilt  centre, 
had  made  her  shriek.  If  only  Paul  would  buy  a  yellow  gig, 
like  his  friend  Dr.  May  of  Broughill,  and  take  her  with  him 
on  his  rounds !  Or  if  she  had  a  friend  or  two  to  go  and 
see  when  he  was  out ! — friends  like  what  Helen  or  even 
Dorothy  might  have  been  :  she  was  not  going  to  be 
hand-in-glove  with  anybody  that  didn't  like  her  Paul ! 
She  missed  church  too — not  the  prayers,  much ;  but  she 
did  like  hearing  what  she  counted  a  good  sermon,  that 
is,  a  lively  one.  Her  husband  wanted  her  to  take  up 
some  science,  but  if  he  had  considered  that,  with  all  her  gift 
in  music,  she  expressed  an  utter  indifterence  to  thorough 
bass,  he  would  hardly  have  been  so  foolish. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 


THE    PONY-CARRIAGE. 


'NE  Saturday  morning  the  doctor  was  called 
to  a.  place  a  good  many  miles  distant, 
and  Juliet  was  left  with  the  prospect  of 
being  longer  alone  than  usual.  She  felt 
it  almost  sultry  although  so  late  in  the 
season,  and  could  not  rest  in  the  house. 
She  pretended  to  herself  she  had  some  shopping  to  do  in 
Pine-street,  but  it  was  rather  a  longing  for  air  and  motion 
that  sent  her  out.  Also,  certain  thoughts  which  she  did 
not  like,  had  of  late  been  coming  more  frequently,  and 
she  found  it  easier  to  avoid  them  in  the  street.  They 
were  not  such  as  troubled  her  from  being  hard  to  think 
out.  Properly  speaking,  she  iJwitght  less  now  than  ever. 
She  often  said  nice  things,  but  they  were  mostly  the  mere 
gracious  movements  of  a  nature  sweet,  playful,  trusting, 
fond  of  all  beautiful  things,  and  quick  to  see  artistic  rela- 
tion where  her  perception  reached. 

As  she  turned  the  corner  of  Mr.  Drew's  shop,  the 
house-door  opened,  and  a  lady  came  out.  It  was  Mr. 
Drew's  lodger.  Juliet  knew  nothing  about  her,  and  was 
not  aware  that  she  had  ever  seen  her  ;  but  the  lady 
stared  as  if  she  recognized  her.  To  that  kind  of  thing 
Juliet  was  accustomed,  for  her  style  of  beauty  was  any- 
thing but  common.     The  lady's  regard  however  was  so 


262  PAUL  FABER. 

fixed  that  it  drew  hers,  and  as  their  eyes  met,  JuJiet  felt 
something,  almost  a  physical  pain,  shoot  through  her 
heart.  She  could  not  understand  it,  but  presently 
began  to  suspect,  and  by  degrees  became  quite  certain 
that  she  had  seen  her  before,  though  she  could  not  teil 
v,-here.  Tlie  effect  the  sight  of  her  had  had,  indicated 
some  painful  association,  which  she  must  recall  before 
she  could  be  at  rest.  She  turned  in  the  other  direction, 
and  walked  straight  from  the  town,  that  she  might  think 
without  eyes  upon  her. 

Scene  after  scene  of  her  life  came  back  as  she  searched 
to  find  some  circumstance  associated  with  that  face.  Once 
and  again  she  seemed  on  the  point  of  laying  hold  of 
something,  when  the  face  itself  vanished  and  she  had  that 
to  recall,  and  the  search  to  resume  from  the  beginning. 
In  the  process  many  painful  memories  arose,  some,  con- 
nected with  her  mother,  unhappy  in  themselves,  others, 
connected  with  her  father,  grown  unhappy  from  her  mar- 
riage ;  for  thereby  she  had  built  a  wall  between  her 
thoughts  and  her  memories  of  him;  and,  if  there  should 
be  a  life  beyond  this,  had  hollowed  a  gulf  between  them 
for  ever. 

Gradually  her  thoughts  took  another  direction.— Could 
it  be  that  already  the  glamour  had  begun  to  disperse,  the 
roses  of  love  to  wither,  the  magic  to  lose  its  force,  the 
common  look  of  things  to  return  ?  Paul  was  as  kind,  as 
courteous,  as  considerate  as  ever,  and  yet  there  was  a 
difference.  Her  heart  did  not  grow  wild,  her  blood  did 
not  rush  to  her  face,  when  she  heard  the  sounds  of  liis 
horse's  hoofs  in  the  street,  though  she  knew  them  instantly. 
Sadder  and  sadder  grew  her  thoughts  as  she  walked 
along,  careless  whither. 

Had  she  begun  to  cease  loving?  No.  She  loved  better 
than  she  knew,  but  she  must  love  infinitely  better  yet. 
The  first"  glow  was  gone — already  :  she  had  thought  it 
would  not  go,  and  was  miserable.  She  recalled  that  even 
her  honeymoon  had  a  little  disappointed  her.  I  would 
not  be  mistaken  as  implying  that  any  of  these  her 
reilcctions   had    their    origin    in    what   was  J^d-iiiiar    \\\ 


THE  PONY-CARRIAGE.  263 

the  character,  outlook,  or  speculation  of  herself  or  her 
husbayid.  The  passion  of  love  is  but  the  vestibule — the 
pylon — to  the  temple  of  love.  A  garden  lies  between 
the  pylon  and  the  adytum.  They  that  will  enter  the 
sanctuary  must  walk  through  the  garden.  But  some  start 
to  see  tiie  roses  already  withering,  sit  down  and  weep 
and  watch  their  decay,  until  at  length  the  aged  flowers 
hang  drooping  all  around  them,  and  lo  !  their  hearts 
are  withered  also,  and  when  they  rise  they  turn  their 
backs  on  the  holy  of  holies,  and  their  feet  towards  the 
gate. 

Juliet  was  proud  of  her  Paul,  and  loved  him  as  much 
as  she  was  yet  capable  of  loving.  But  she  had  thought 
they  were  enough  for  each  other,  and  already,  although 
she  was  far  from  acknowledging  it  to  herself,  she  had,  in 
the  twiliglit  of  her  thinking,  begun  to  doubt  it.  Nor 
can  she  be  blamed  for  the  doubt.  Never  man  and 
woman  yet  succeeded  in  being  all  in  all  to  each  other. 

It  were  presumption  to  say  that  a  lonely  God 
would  be  enough  for  himself,  seeing  that  we  can  know 
nothing  of  God  but  as  he  is  our  Father.  What  if  the 
creator  himself  is  sufficient  to  himself  in  virtue  of  his  self- 
existent  crcaforship  ?  Let  my  reader  think  it  out.  The 
lower  we  go  in  the  scale  of  creation,  the  more  independent 
is  the  individual.  The  richer  and  more  perfect  each  of 
a  married  pair  is  in  the  other  relations  of  life,  the  more 
is  each  to  the  other.  For  us,  the  children  of  eternal 
love,  the  very  air  our  spirits  breathe,  and  without  which 
they  cannot  live,  is  the  eternal  life ;  for  us,  the  brothers 
and  sisters  of  a  countless  family,  the  very  space  in  which 
our  souls  can  exist,  is  the  love  of  each  and  every  soul  of 
our  kind. 

Such  were  not  Juliet's  thoughts.  To  her  such  would 
have  seemed  as  unreal  as  unintelligible.  To  her  they 
would  have  looked  just  what  some  of  my  readers  will 
pronounce  them,  not  in  the  least  knowing  what  they  are. 
She  was  suddenly  roused  from  her  painful  reverie  by  the 
pulling  up  of  Helen's  ponies,  with  much  clatter  and 
wriggling  recoil,  close  beside  her,  making  more  fuss  with 


264  PAUL  FABER. 

their  toy-carriage  than  the  mightiest  of  tractive  steeds 
with  the  chariot  of  pomp. 

"  Jump  in,  Juhet,"  cried  their  driver,  addressing  her 
with  the  greater  abandon  that  she  was  resolved  no  stift- 
ness  on  her  part  should  deposit  a  grain  to  the  silting  up 
of  the  channel  of  former  affection.  She  was  one  of  the 
few  who  understand  that  no  being  can  aftbrd  to  let  the 
smallest  love-germ  die. 

Juliet  hesitated.  She  was  not  a  little  bewildered  with 
the  sudden  recall  from  the  moony  plains  of  memory,  and 
the  demand  for  immediate  action.  She  answered  uncer- 
tainly, trying  to  think  what  was  involved. 

"  I  know  your  husband  is  not  waiting  you  at  home," 
pursued  Helen.  "  I  saw  him  on  Ruber,  three  fields  off, 
riding  away  from  Glaston.  Jump  in,  dear.  You  can 
make  up  that  mind  of  yours  in  the  carriage  as  well  as 
upon  the  road.  I  will  set  you  down  wherever  you  please. 
]\Iy  husband  is  out  too,  so  the  slaves  can  take  their 
pleasure." 

Juliet  could  not  resist,  had  little  inclination  to  do  so, 
yielded  without  another  word,  and  took  her  place  beside 
Helen,  a  Uttle  shy  of  being  alone  with  her,  yet  glad  ot 
her  company.  Away  went  the  ponies,  and  as  soon  as 
she  had  got  them  settled  to  their  work,  Helen  turned  her 
face  towards  Juliet. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  !"  she  said. 

Juliet's  heart  spoke  too  loud  for  her  throat.  It  was  a 
relief  to  her  that  Helen  had  to  keep  her  eyes  on  her 
cliarge,  the  quickness  of  whose  every  motion  rendered 
watchfulness  right  needful. 

"Have  you  returned  Mrs.  Bevis's  call  yet?"'  asked 
Helen. 

"  No,"  murmured  Juliet.     "  I  haven't  been  able  yet." 

"  Well,  here  is  a  good  chance.  Sit  where  you  are, 
and  you  will  be  at  Nestley  in  half  an  hour,  and  I  shall 
be  the  more  welcome.     You  are  a  great  favourite  there  !" 

"  How  kind  you  are  !"  said  Juliet,  the  tears  beginning 
to  rise.     "  Indeed,  Mrs.  Wingfold, " 


THE  PONY-CARIUAGE.  265 

"  You  used  to  call  me  Helen  !"  said  that  lady,  pulling 
up  her  ponies  with  sudden  energy,  as  they  shied  at  a  bit 
of  paper  on  the  road,  and  nearly  had  themselves  and  all 
they  drew  in  the  ditch. 

"  May  I  call  you  so  still?" 

"  Surely  !     What  else  !" 

"  You  are  too  good  to  me  !"  said  Juliet,  and  wept 
outright. 

"  My  dear  Juliet,"  returned  Helen,  "I  will  be  quite 
plain  with  you,  and  that  will  put  things  straight  in  a 
moment.  Your  friends  understand  perfectly  why  you 
have  avoided  them  of  late,  and  are  quite  sure  it  is 
from  no  unkindness  to  any  of  them.  But  neither  must 
you  imagine  we  think  hardly  of  you  for  marrying  Mr. 
Faber.  We  detest  his  opinions  so  much  that  wc  feel  sure 
if  you  saw  a  little  farther  into  them,  neither  of  you  would 
hold  them." 

"  But  I  don't — that  is,  I " 

"You  don't  know  whether  you  hold  them  or  not:  I 
understand  quite  well.  My  husband  says  in  your  case  it 
does  not  matter  much  ;  for  if  you  had  ever  really  be- 
lieved in  Jesus  Christ,  you  could  not  have  done  it.  At 
all  events  now  the  tiling  is  done,  there  is  no  question 
about  it  left.  Dear  Juliet,  think  of  us  as  your  friends 
still,  who  will  always  be  glad  to  see  you,  and  ready  to 
help  you  where  we  can." 

Juliet  was  weeping  for  genuine  gladness  now.  But 
even  as  she  wept,  by  one  of  those  strange  movements  of 
our  being  which  those  who  have  Ijeen  quickest  to  ques- 
tion them  wonder  at  the  most,  it  flashed  upon  her  where 
she  had  seen  the  lady  that  came  from  Mr.  Drew's  house, 
and  her  heart  sunk  within  her,  for  the  place  was  associ- 
ated with  that  portion  of  her  history  which  of  all  she 
would  most  gladly  hide  from  herself.  During  the  rest  of 
the  drive  she  was  so  silent,  that  Helen  at  last  gave  up 
trying  to  talk  to  her.  Then  first  she  observed  how  the 
clouds  had  risen  on  all  sides  and  were  meeting  above, 
and  that  the  air  was  more  still  and  sultry  than  ever. 


266  PAUL  FAB  Eli. 

Just  as  they  got  within  Nestley-gatc,  a  flash  of  light- 
ning, scarcely  followed  by  a  loud  thunder-clap,  sh.ot  from 
overliead.  'rhe  ponies  plunged,  reared,  swayed  asunder 
from  the  pole,  nearly  fell,  and  recovered  themselves  only 
to  dart  off  in  wild  terror.     Juliet  screamed. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  child,"  said  Helen.  "There 
is  no  danger  here.  The  road  is  straight  and  there  is 
nothing  on  it.  I  shall  soon  pull  them  up.  Only  don't 
cry  out :  that  will  be  as  little  to  their  taste  as  the 
lightning." 

Juliet  caught  at  the  reins. 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't  do  that !"  cried  Helen,  balking 
her  clutch.     "  You  Avill  kill  us  both." 

Juliet  sunk  back  in  her  seat.  The  ponies  went  at  full 
speed  along  the  road.  The  danger  was  small,  for  the 
park  was  upon  both  sides,  level  with  the  drive,  in  which 
there  w\as  a  slight  ascent.  Helen  was  perfectly  quiet, 
and  went  on  gradually  tightening  her  pull  upon  the  reins. 
Before  they  reached  the  house,  she-  had  entirely  regained 
her  command  of  them.  "When  she  drew  up  at  the  door, 
they  stood  quite  steady,  but  panting  as  if  their  little  sides 
would  fly  asunder.  By  this  time  Helen  was  red  as  a 
rose  ;  her  eyes  were  flashing,  and  a  smile  was  playing 
about  her  mouth  ;  but  Juliet  was  like  a  lily  on  which  the 
rain  has  been  falling  all  night :  her  very  lips  were  bloodless. 
When  Helen  turned  and  saw  her,  she  was  far  more 
frightened  than  the  ponies  could  make  her. 

"  Why,  Juliet,  my  dear  !"  she  said,  "  I  had  no  thought 
5'ou  Avere  so  terrified  !  What  would  your  husband  say 
to  me  for  frightening  you  so !  But  you  are  safe 
now." 

A  servant  came  to  take  the  ponies.  Helen  got  out 
first,  and  gave  her  hand  to  Juliet. 

"  Don't  think  me  a  coward,  Helen,"  she  said.  "  It 
was  the  thunder.     I  never  could  bear  thunder." 

"  I  should  be  far  more  of  a  coward  than  you  are, 
Juliet,"  answered  Helen,  "if  I  believed,  or  even  feared, 


THE  PONY-CARRIAGE.  267 

that  just  a  false  step  of  little  Zephyr  there,  or  one  plunge 
more  from  Zoe,  might  wipe  out  the  world,  and  I  should 
never  more  see  the  face  of  my  husband." 

She  spoke  eagerly,  lovingly,  bclievingly.  Juliet  shivered, 
stopped,  and  laid  hold  of  the  baluster  rail.  Things  had 
been  too  much  for  her  that  day.  She  looked  so  ill  that 
Helen  Avas  again  alarmed,  but  she  soon  came  to  herself  a 
litlle,  and  they  went  on  to  Mrs.  Bevis's  room.  She  re- 
ceived them  most  kindly,  made  Mrs.  Faber  lie  on  the 
sofa,  covered  her  over,  for  she  was  still  trembling,  and 
got  her  a  glass  of  wine.  Uut  she  could  not  drink  it,  and 
lay  sobbing  in  vain  endeavour  to  control  herself 

Meantime  the  clouds  gathered  thicker  and  thicker : 
the  thunder-peal  that  frightened  the  ponies  had  been  but 
the  herald  of  the  storm,  and  now  it  came  on  in  earnest. 
The  rain  rushed  suddenly  on  the  earth,  and  as  soon  as 
she  heard  it,  Juliet  ceased  to  sob.  At  every  flash,  how- 
ever, although  she  lay  with  her  eyes  shut,  and  her  face 
pressed  into  the  pillow,  she  shivered  and  moaned. — 
"  Why  should  one,"  thought  Helen,  "  who  is  merely  and 
only  the  child  of  Nature,  finds  herself  so  little  at  home 
with  her  ?" — Presently  Mr.  Bevis  came  running  in  from 
the  stable,  drenched  in  crossing  to  the  house.  As  he 
passed  to  his  room,  he  opened  the  door  of  his  wife's,  and 
looked  in. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  safely  housed,  ladies,"  he  said. 
*'  You  must  make  up  your  minds  to  stay  where  you  are. 
It  will  not  clear  before  the  moon  rises,  and  that  will  be 
about  midnight.  I  will  send  John  to  tell  your  husbands 
that  you  are  not  cowering  under  a  hedge,  and  will  not  be 
home  to-night." 

He  was  a  good  weather-prophet.  The  rain  went  on. 
In  the  evening  the  two  husbands  appeared,  dripping. 
They  had  come  on  horseback  together,  and  would  ride 
home  again  after  dinner.  The  doctor  would  have  to  be 
out  the  greater  part  of  the  Sunday,  and  would  gladly  leave 
his  wife  in  such  good  quarters ;  the  curate  would  walk 


268  PAUL  FABER. 

out  to  his  preaching  in  the  evening,  and  drive  home  with 
Helen  after  it,  taking  JuHet,  if  she  should  be  able  to 
accompany  them. 

After  dinner,  when  the  ladies  had  left  them,  between 
the  two  clergymen  and  the  doctor  arose  tlie  convev- 
sation  of  whicli  I  will  now  give  the  substance,  leaving 
the  commencement,  and  taking  it  up  at  an  advanced 
point. 

"Now  tell  me,"  said  Faber,  in  the  tone  of  one  satisfied 
he  must  be  allowed  in  the  right,  "which  is  the  nobler — 
to  serve  your  neighbour  in  the  hope  of  a  future,  believing 
in  a  God  who  will  reward  you,  or  to  serve  him  in  the 
dark,  obeying  your  conscience,  with  no  other  hope  than 
that  those  who  come  after  you  will  be  the  better  for 
you." 

"  I  allow  most  heartily,"  answered  Wingfold,  "  and 
with  all  admiration,  that  it  is  indeed  grand  in  one  hope- 
less for  himself  to  live  well  for  the  sake  of  generations  to 
come,  which  he  will  never  see,  and  which  will  never  hear 
of  him.  But  I  will  not  allow  that  there  is  anything 
grand  in  being  hopeless  for  oneself,  or  in  serving  the 
unseen  rather  than  those  about  you,  seeing  it  is  easier  to 
work  for  those  who  cannot  oppose  you,  than  to  endure 
the  contradiction  of  sinners.  But  I  know  you  agree 
with  me  that  the  best  way  to  assist  posterity  is  to  be  true 
to  your  contemporaries,  so  there  I  need  say  no  more — 
except  that  the  hopeless  man  can  do  the  least  for  liis 
fellows,  being  unable  to  give  them  anything  that  should 
render  them  other  than  ho])eless  themselves ;  and  if,  for 
the  grandeur  of  it,  a  man  were  to  cast  away  his  purse  in 
order  to  have  the  praise  of  parting  with  the  two  mites 
left  in  his  pocket,  you  would  simply  say  the  man  was  a 
fool.  This  much  seems  to  me  clear,  that,  if  there  be  no 
God,  it  may  be  nobler  to  be  able  to  live  without  one  ; 
but,  if  there  be  a  God,  it  must  be  nobler  not  to  be  able 
to  live  without  him.  The  moment,  however,  that  nobility 
becomes  the  object  in  any  action,  that  moment  the  noble- 
ness of  the  action  vanishes.  The  man  who  serves  his  fellow 


THE  PONr-CARRIAGE.  269 

that  he  may  himself  be  noble,  misses  the  mark.  He 
alone  who  follows  the  truth,  not  he  who  follows  nobility, 
shall  attain  the  noble.  A  man's  nobility  will,  in  the  end, 
prove  just  commensurate  with  his  humanity — with  the 
love  he  bears  his  neighbour — not  the  amount  of  work 
he  may  have  done  for  him.  A  man  might  throw  a 
lordly  gift  to  his  fellow,  like  a  bone  to  a  dog,  and  damn 
himself  in  the  deed.  You  may  insult  a  dog  by  the  way 
you  give  him  his  bone." 

"  I  dispute  nothing  of  all  that,"  said  Faber — while 
good  Mr.  Bevis  sat  listening  hard,  not  quite  able  to 
follow  the  discussion  j  "  but  I  know  you  will  admit  that 
to  do  right  from  respect  to  any  reward  whatever,  hardly 
amounts  to  doing  right  at  all" 

"  I  doubt  if  any  man  ever  did  or  could  do  a  thing 
worthy  of  passing  as  in  itself  good,  for  the  sake  of  a 
reward,"  rejoined  Wingfold.  "  Certainly,  to  do  good  for 
something  else  than  good,  is  not  good  at  all.  But  per 
haps  a  reward  may  so  influence  a  low  nature  as  to  bring 
it  a  little  into  contact  with  what  is  good,  whence  the 
better  part  of  it  may  make  some  acquaintance  with  good. 
Also,  the  desire  of  the  approbation  of  the  Perfect,  might 
nobly  help  a  man  who  was  finding  his  duty  hard,  for  it 
would  humble  as  well  as  strengthen  him,  and  is  but 
another  form  of  the  love  of  the  good.  The  praise  of 
God  will  ahvays  humble  a  man,  I  think." 

"There  you  are  out  of  my  depth,"  said  Faber.  "I 
know  nothing  about  that." 

"  I  go  on  then  to  say,"  continued  the  curate,  "  that  a 
man  may  well  be  strengthened  and  encouraged  by  the 
hope  of  being  made  a  better  and  truer  man,  and  capable 
of  greater  self-forgetfulness  and  devotion.  There  is 
nothing  low  in  having  respect  to  such  a  reward  as  that, 
is  there  ?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  better,"  persisted  the  doctor,  "  to  do 
right  for  the  sake  of  duty,  than  for  the  sake  of  any  good- 
ness even  that  will  come  thereby  to  yourself" 

'  Assuredly,  if  self  in  the  goodness,  and  not  the  good- 


270  PAUL  FAB  Eli. 

ness  itself  be  the  object,"  assented  "Wingfoid.  "When, 
a  duty  lies  before  one,  self  ought  to  have  no  part  in  the 
gaze  we  fix  upon  it ;  but  when  thought  reverts  upon 
himself,  who  would  avoid  the  wish  to  be  a  better  man  ? 
The  man  who  v.-ill  not  do  a  thing  for  duty,  will  never  get 
so  far  as  to  derive  any  help  from  the  hope  of  goodness. 
But  duty  itself  is  only  a  stage  towards  something  better. 
It  is  but  the  impulse,  God-given  I  believe,  towards  a  far 
more  vital  contact  with  the  truth.  We  shall  one  day 
forget  all  about  dut)'-,  and  do  everything  from  the  love  of 
the  loveliness  of  it,  tlie  satisfaction  of  the  rightness  of  it. 
What  would  you  say  to  a  man  who  ministered  to  the 
wants  of  his  wife  and  family  only  from  duty  ?  Of  course 
you  wish  heartily  that  the  man  who  neglects  them  would 
do  it  from  any  cause,  even  were  it  fear  of  the  whip  ;  but 
the  strongest  and  most  operative  sense  of  duty  would  not 
satisfy  you  in  such  a  relation.  There  are  depths  within 
depths  of  righteousness.  Duty  is  the  only  path  to  free- 
dom, but  that  freedom  is  the  love  that  is  beyond  and 
prevents  duty." 

"  But,"  said  Faber,  "  I  have  heard  you  say  that  to  take 
from  you  your  belief  in  a  God  would  be  to  render  you 
incapable  of  action.  Now,  the  man — I  don't  mean 
myself,  but  the  sort  of  man  for  whom  I  stand  up — does 
act,  does  his  duty,  without  the  strength  of  that  belief:  is 
he  not  then  the  stronger?- — Let  us  drop  the  word  nobler 

"  In  the  case  supposed,  he  would  be  the  stronger— for 
a  time  at  least,"  replied  the  curate.  "  But  you  must 
remember  that  to  take  from  me  the  joy  and  glory  of  my 
life,  namely  the  belief  that  I  am  the  child  of  God,  an 
heir  of  the  infinite,  with  the  hope  of  being  made  perfectly 
righteous,  loving  like  God  himself,  would  be  something 
more  than  merely  reducing  me  to  the  level  of  a  man  who 
had  never  loved  God,  or  seen  in  the  possibility  of  him 
anything  to  draw  him.  I  should  have  lost  the  mighty 
dream  of  a  universe  ;  he  would  be  what  and  where  lie 
chose  to  be^  and  might  well  be  the  more  capable.  'Were 
I   to  be  convinced  there  is  no  God,  and  to  recover  by 


THE  PONY-CARRIAGE.  27 1 

tlie  mere  force  of  animal  life  from  tiie  prostration  into 
which  the  conviction  cast  me,  I  should,  I  hope,  try  to  do 
what  duty  was  left  me,  for  I  too  should  be  filled,  for  a 
time  at  least,  with  an  endless  pity  for  my  fellows  ;  but 
all  v/ould  be  so  dreary,  that  I  should  be  almost  paralyzed 
for  serving  them,  and  should  long  for  death  to  do  them 
and  myself  the  only  good  service.  The  thought  of  the 
generations  doomed  to  be  born  into  a  sunless  present, 
would  almost  make  me  join  any  conspiracy  to  put  a  stop 
to  the  race.  I  should  agree  with  Hamlet  that  the  whole 
thing  had  better  come  to  an  end.  Would  it  necessarily 
indicate  a  lower  nature,  or  condition,  or  habit  of  thought, 
that,  having  cherished  such  hopes,  I  sliould,  when  I  lost 
them,  be  more  troubled  than  one  who  never  had  had 
them  ?'" 

"  Still,"  said  Faber,  "  I  ask  you  to  allow  that  a  nature 
which  can  do  without  help  is  greater  than  a  nature  which 
cannot." 

"If  the  thing  done  were  the  same,  I  should  allow  it," 
answered  the  curate ;  "  but  the  things  done  will  prove 
altogether  different.  And  another  thing  to  be  noted  is, 
that,  while  the  need  of  help  might  indicate  a  lower  nature, 
the  capacity  for  receiving  it  must  indicate  a  higher.  The 
mere  fact  of  being  able  to  live  and  act  in  more  meagre 
spiritual  circiunstances,  in  itself  proves  nothing  :  it  is  not 
the  highest  nature  that  has  the  fewest  needs.  The 
highest  nature  is  the  one  that  has  the  most  necessities, 
but  the  fewest  of  its  own  making.  He  is  not  the  greatest 
man  who  is  the  most  independent,  but  he  who  thirsts 
most  after  a  conscious  harmony  with  every  element  and 
portion  of  the  mighty  whole  ;  demands  from  every  region 
tliereof  its  influences  to  perfect  his  individuality  ;  regards 
that  incHvidualily  as  his  kingdom,  his  treasure,  not  to 
hold  but  to  give  ;  sees  in  his  Self  the  one  thing  he  can 
devote,  the  one  precious  means  of  freedom  by  its  sacri- 
fice, and  that  in  no  contempt  or  scorn,  but  in  love  to 
God  and  his  children,  the  multitudes  of  his  kind.  ]]y 
dying  ever  thus,  ever  thus  losing  his  soul,  he  lives  like 


?72  PAUL  FABER. 

God,  and  God  knows  him,  and  he  knows  God.  This  is 
too  good  to  be  grasped,  but  not  too  good  to  be  true. 
The  highest  is  that  which  needs  tlie  highest,  the  largest 
that  which  needs  the  most ;  the  finest  and  strongest  that 
which  to  Hve  must  breathe  essential  life,  self-willed  life, 
God  himself.  It  follows  that  it  is  not  the  largest  or  the 
strongest  nature  that  will  feel  a  loss  the  least.  An  ant 
will  not  gather  a  grain  of  corn  the  less  that  his  mother  is 
dead,  while  a  boy  will  turn  from  his  books  and  his  play 
and  his  dinner  because  his  bird  is  dead  :  is  the  ant  there- 
fore the  stronger  nature  ?" 

"  Is  it  not  weak  to  be  miserable  ?"  said  the  doctor. 

"Yes — without  good  cause,"  answered  the  curate. 
"  But  you  do  not  know  what  it  would  be  to  me  to  lose 
ray  faith  in  my  God.  My  misery  would  be  a  misery  to 
v.'hich  no  assurance  of  immortality  or  of  happiness 
could  bring  anything  but  tenfold  misery — the  conviction 
that  I  should  never  be  good  myself,  never  have  any- 
thing to  love  absolutely,  never  be  able  to  make  amends 
for  the  wrongs  I  had  done.  Call  such  a  feeling  selfish  if 
you  will :  I  cannot  help  it.  I  cannot  count  one  fit  for 
existence  to  whom  such  things  would  be  no  grief.  The 
Avorthy  existence  must  hunger  after  good.  The  largest 
nature  must  have  the  mightiest  hunger.  Who  calls  a  man 
selfish  because  he  is  hungry  ?  He  is  selfish  if  he  broods 
on  the  pleasures  of  eating,  and  would  not  go  without  his 
dinner  for  the  sake  of  another;  but  if  he  had  no  hunger, 
where  would  be  the  room  foi  his  self-denial  ?  Besides, 
in  spiritual  things,  the  only  way  to  give  them  to  your 
neighbours  is  to  hunger  after  them  yourself.  There  each 
man  is  a  mouth  to  the  body  of  the  whole  creation.  It 
cannot  be  selfishness  to  hunger  and  thirst  after  righteous- 
ness, which  righteousness  is  just  your  duty  to  your  God 
and  your  neighbour.  If  there  be  any  selfishness  in  it, 
the  very  answer  to  your  prayer  will  destroy  it." 

"  There  you  are  again  out  of  my  region,"  said  Fabcr. 
"  But  answer  me  one  thing  :  is  it  not  weak  to  desire 
happiness  ?" 


THE  rO.YY- CARRIAGE.  273 

"Yes;  if  the  happiness  is  poor  and  low,"  rejoined 
Mngfold.  "  But  the  man  who  would  choose  even  the 
grandeur  of  duty  before  the  bliss  of  the  truth,  must  be  a 
lover  of  himself.  Such  a  man  must  be  travelling 
the  road  to  death.  If  there  be  a  God,  truth  must 
be  joy.  If  there  be  not,  truth  may  be  misery. — But, 
honestly,  I  know  not  one  advanced  Christian  who  tries 
to  obey  for  the  hope  of  heaven  or  the  fear  of  hell.  Such 
ideas  have  long  vanished  from  such  a  man.  He  loves 
God ;  he  loves  truth ;  he  loves  his  fellow,  and  knows  he 
must  love  him  more.  You  judge  of  Christianity  either 
by  those  who  are  no  true  representatives  of  it,  and  are 
indeed  less  of  Christians  than  yourself;  or  by  others  who, 
being  intellectually  inferior,  perhaps  even  stupid,  belie 
Christ  with  their  dull  theories  concerning  him.  Yet  the 
latter  may  have  in  them  a  noble  seed,  urging  them  up 
heights  to  you  at  present  unconceived  and  inconceivable; 
while,  in  the  meantime,  some  of  them  serve  their  genera- 
tion well,  and  do  as  much  for  those  that  are  to  come 
after  as  you  do  yourself." 

"  There  is  always  weight  as  well  as  force  in  what  you 
urge,  Wingfold,"  returned  Faber.  "  Still  it  looks  to  me 
just  a  cunningly  devised  fable — I  will  not  say  of  the 
priests,  but  of  the  human  mind  deceiving  itself  with  its 
own  hopes  and  desires." 

"  It  may  well  look  such  to  those  who  are  outside  of  it, 
and  it  must  at  length  appear  such  to  all  who,  feeling 
in  it  any  claim  upon  them,  yet  do  not  put  it  to  the  test 
of  their  obedience." 

"  Well,  you  have  had  your  turn,  and  now  we  are  having 
ours — you  of  the  legends,  we  of  the  facts." 

"No,"  said  Wingfold,  "we  have  not  had  our  turn, 
and  you  have  been  having  yours  for  a  far  longer  time  than 
we.  But  if,  as  you  profess,  you  are  doing  the  truth  you 
see,  it  belongs  to  my  belief  that  you  will  come  to  see 
the  truth  you  do  not  see.  Christianity  is  not  a  failure  ; 
for  to  it  mainly  is  the  fact  owing  that  here  is  a  class  of 
men  which,  believing  in  no  God,  yet  believes  in  duty 

T 


274  PAUL  FABER. 

towards  men.  Look  liere :  if  Christianity  be  the  out- 
come of  human  aspiration,  the  natural  growth  of  the 
human  soil,  is  it  not  strange  it  should  be  such  an  utter 
failure  as  it  seems  to  you  ?  and  as  such  a  natural  growth, 
it  must  be  a  failure,  for  if  it  were  a  success,  must  not  you 
be  the  very  one  to  see  it  ?  If  it  is  false,  it  is  worthless,  or 
an  e\il :  ere  whthen  is  your  law  of  development,  if  the 
highest  result  of  that  development  is  an  evil  to  the  nature 
and  the  race?" 

"  I  do  not  grant  it  the  highest  result,"  snid  Faber. 
"  It  is  a  failure — a  false  blossom,  with  a  truer  to 
follow." 

"  To  produce  a  superior  architecture,  poetry,  music  ?" 

"Perhaps  not.     But  a  better  science." 

"  Are  the  architecture  and  poetry  and  music  parts  of 
the  failure  ?" 

"Yes — but  they  are  not  altogether  a  failure,  for  there  lay 
some  truth  at  the  root  of  them  all.  Now  we  shall  see 
what  will  come  of  turning  away  from  everything  we  do 
not  kuoio." 

"  That  is  not  exactly  what  you  mean,  for  that  would 
be  never  to  know  anything  more.  But  the  highest  you 
have  in  view  is  immeasurably  below  what  Christianity 
has  always  demanded  of  its  followers." 

"  But  has  never  got  from  them,  and  never  will.  Look 
at  the  wars,  the  hatreds,  to  which  your  gospel  has  given 
rise !  Look  at  Calvin  and  poor  Servetus  !  Look  at  the 
strifes  and  divisions  of  our  own  day !  Look  at  the 
religious  newspapers  !" 

"All  granted.  It  is  a  chaos,  the  motions  of  whose 
organization  must  be  strife.  The  spirit  of  life  is  at  war 
with  the  spasmatical  body  of  death.  If  Christianity  be 
not  still  in  the  process  of  development,  it  is  the  saddest 
of  all  failures." 

"The  fact  is,  Wingfold,  your  prophet  would  have 
been  king  of  the  race  if  he  had  not  believed  in  a 
God." 

"  I  dare  not  speak  the  answer  that  rises  to  my  lips," 


THE  rONY-CARRIAGE.  275 

said  Wingfold.  "But  there  is  more  truth  in  what  you 
say  than  you  think,  and  more  of  essential  He  also.  My 
answer  is,  that  the  foith  of  Jesus  in  his  God  and  Father 
is,  even  now,  saving  me,  setting  me  free  from  my  one 
horror,  selfishness  ;  making  my  life  an  unspeakable  boon 
to  me,  letting  me  know  its  roots  in  the  eternal  and 
perfect ;  giving  me  such  love  to  my  fellow,  that  I  trust 
at  last  to  love  him  as  Christ  has  loved  me.  But  I  do 
not  expect  you  to  understand  me.  He  in  whom  I  believe 
said  that  a  man  must  be  born  again  to  enter  into  the 
kingdom  of  heaven." 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"  You  then  arc  one  of  the  double-born,  Wingfold  ?"  he 
said. 

"  I  believe,  I  think,  I  hope  so,"  replied  the  curate,  very 
gravely. 

"  And  you,  Mr.  Bevis  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  wish.  I  doubt,"  answered  the  rector, 
with  equal  solemnity. 

"  Oh,  never  fear !"  said  Faber,  with  a  quiet  smile,  and 
rising,  left  the  clergymen  together. 

But  what  a  morning  it  was  that  came  up  after  the 
storm  !  All  night  the  lightning  had  been  flashing  itself 
into  peace,  and  gliding  farther  and  farther  away.  Bellow- 
ing and  growling  the  tliunder  had  crept  with  it ;  but  long 
after  it  could  no  more  be  heard,  the  lightning  kept  gleam- 
ing up,  as  if  from  a  sea  of  flame  behind  the  horizon. 
The  sun  brought  a  glorious  day,  and  looked  larger  and 
mightier  than  before.  To  Helen,  as  she  gazed  eastward 
from  her  window,  lie  seemed  ascending  his  lofty  pulpit 
to  preach  the  story  of  the  day  named  after  him— the 
story  of  the  Sun-day  ;  the  rising  again  in  splendour  of  the 
darkened  and  buried  Sun  of  the  universe,  with  whom 
all  the  worlds  and  all  their  hearts  and  suns  arose.  A 
•light  steam  was  floating  up  from  the  grass,  and  the  ram- 
drops  were  sparkling  everywhere.  The  day  had  arisen 
from  the  bosom  of  tlie  night ;  peace  and  graciousness 
from  the  bosom  of  the  storm  ;  she  herself  from  the  grave 
T  2 


276  PAUL  FABER. 

of  her  sleep,  over  which  had  lain  the  turf  of  the  darkness ; 
and  all  was  fresh  life  and  new  hope.     And  through  it  all, 
reviving  afresh  with  every  sign  of  Nature's  universal  law 
of  birth,  was  the  consciousness  that  her  life,  her  own  self, 
was  rising  from  the  dead,  was  being  new-born  also.    She 
had  not  far  to  look  back  to  the  time  when  all  was  dull 
and  dead  in  her  being ;  when  the  earthquake  came,  and 
the  storm,  and  the  fire ;  and  after  them  the  still  small 
voice,  breathing  rebuke,  and  hope,  and  strength.     Her 
whole  world  was  now  radiant  with  expectation.     It  was 
through   her   husband    the   change  _  had   come  _  to   her, 
but  he  was    not    the   rock    on  which    she    built.     For 
his    sake    she   could   go    to    hell— yea,  cease  to  exist; 
but  there  was  one  whom  she  loved  more  than  him — the 
one  whose  love  was  the  self-willed  cause  of  all  love,  who 
from  that  love  had  sent  forth  her  husband  and  herself  to 
love  one  another  ;  whose  heart  was  the  nest  of  their  birth, 
the  cradle  of  their  growth,  the  rest  of  their  being.     Yea 
more  than  her  husband  she  loved  him,  her  elder  brother, 
by  whom  the  Father  had  done  it  all,  the  man  who  lived 
and  died  and  rose  again  so  many  hundred  years  ago.    In 
him,  the  perfect  one,  she  hoped  for  a  perfect  love  to  her 
husband,  a  perfect  nature  in  herself.     She  knew  how 
Faber   would   have   mocked   at   such  a  love,  the  very 
existence  of  w^hose   object   she   could  not  prove,  how 
mocked  at  the  notion  that  his  life  even  now  was  influ- 
encing hers.     She  knew  how  he  would  say  it  was  merely 
love  and  marriage   that   had  wrought  the  change;    but 
while  she  recognized  them  as    forces  altogether  divine, 
she  knew  that  not  only  was  the  Son  of  INIan  behind  them, 
but  that  it  was  her  obedience  to  him  and  her  confidence 
in  him  that  had  wrought  the  red  heart  of  the  change  in 
her.     She  knew  that  she  would  rather  break  with  her 
husband  altogether,  than  do  one  action  contrary  to  the 
known  mind  and  will  of  that  man.     Faber  would  call  her 
faith  a  mighty,  perhaps  a  lovely  illusion  :  her  life  was  an 
active  waiting  for  the  revelation  of  its  object  in  splendour 
before  the  universe.     The  world  seemed  to  lier  a  grand 


THE  rONY-CARRIAGE.  27/ 

march  of  resurrections — out  of  every  sorrow  springing  the 
joy  at  its  heart,  without  which  it  could  not  have  been  a 
sorrow;  out  of  the  troubles,  and  evils,  and  sufferings, 
and  cruelties  that  clouded  its  history,  ever  arising  the 
human  race,  the  sons  of  God,  redeemed  in  him  who  had 
been  made  subject  to  death  that  he  might  conquer  Death 
for  them  and  for  his  Father — a  succession  of  mighty  facts, 
whose  meanings  only  God  can  evolve,  only  the  obedient 
heart  behold. 

On  such  a  morning,  so  full  of  resurrection,  Helen  was 
only  a  little  troubled  not  to  be  one  of  her  husband's  con- 
gregation :  she  would  take  her  New  Testament,  and 
spend  the  sunny  day  in  the  open  air.  In  the  evening  he 
was  coming,  and  would  preach  in  the  little  chapel.  If 
only  Juliet  might  hear  him  too !  Lut  she  would  not  ask 
her  to  go. 

Juhet  was  better,  for  fatigue  had  compelled  sleep.  The 
morning  brought  her  little  hope,  however,  no  sense  of 
resurrection.  A  certain  dead  thing  had  begun  to  move 
in  its  coftin ;  she  was  utterly  alone  with  it,  and  it  made 
the  world  feel  a  tomb  around  her.  Not  all  resurrec- 
tions are  the  resurrection  of  life,  though  in  the  end  they 
will  be  found,  even  to  the  lowest  birth  of  the  power  of 
the  enemy,  to  have  contributed  thereto.  She  did  not 
get  up  to  breakfast  \  Helen  persuaded  her  to  rest,  and 
herself  carried  it  to  her.  But  she  rose  soon  after,  and 
declared  herself  quite  well. 

The  rector  drove  to  Glaston  in  his  dogcart  to  read 
prayers.  Helen  went  out  into  the  park  with  her  New 
Testament  and  George  Herbert.  Poor  Juliet  was  left 
with  Mrs.  Bevis,  who  happily  could  not  be  duller  than 
usual,  although  it  was  Sunday.  Ijy  the  time  the  rector 
returned,  bringing  his  curate  with  him,  she  was  bored 
almost  beyond  endurance.  She  had  not  yet  such  a  love 
of  wisdom  as  to  be  able  to  bear  with  folly.  The  foolish 
and  weak  are  the  most  easily  disgusted  with  folly  and 
weakness  which  is  not  of  their  own  sort,  and  are  the  last 
to  make  allowances  for  them.     To  spend  also  the  even- 


278  PAUL  FABER. 

ing  with  the  softly  smih'ng  old  woman,  who  would  not  go 
across  the  grass  after  such  a  rain  the  night  before,  was  a 
thing  not  to  be  contemplated.  Juliet  borrowed  a  pair  ot 
galoshes,  and  insisted  on  going  to  the  chapel.  In  vain 
the  rector  and  his  wife  dissuaded  her.  Neither  Helen 
nor  her  husband  said  a  word. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 


A    CONSCIENCE. 


g^HE  chapel  in  the  park  at  Nestley,  having 
as  yet  received  no  colour,  and  having  no 
organ  or  choir,  was  a  cold,  uninteresting 
little  place.  It  was  neat,  but  had  small 
beauty,  and  no  history.  Yet  even  already 
had  begun  to  gather  in  the  hearts  of  two 
or  three  of  the  congregation,  a  feeling  of  quiet  sacred- 
ness  about  it :  some  soft  airs  of  the  spirit-wind  had 
been  wandering  through  their  souls  as  they  sat  there 
and  listened.  And  a  gentle  awe,  from  old  associa- 
tions with  lay  worship,  stole  like  a  soft  twilight  over 
Juliet  as  she  entered.  Even  the  antral  dusk  of  an  old 
reverence  may  help  to  form  the  fitting  mood  through 
v.hich  shall  slide  unhindered  the  still  small  voice  that 
makes  appeal  to  what  of  God  is  yet  awake  in  the  soul. 
There  were  present  about  a  score  of  villagers,  and  the 
party  from  the  house. 

Clad  in  no  vestments  of  office,  but  holding  in  his  hand 
the  New  Testament,  which  was  always  either  there  or  in 
his  pocket,  Wingfold  rose  to  speak.     He  read  : 

"  BcKiare  ye  of  the  leaven  of  the  Pharisees,  which  is 
hypocrisy.  For  there  is  notJiiug  covered,  that  shall  not  he 
revealed;  neither  hid,  that  shall  not  be  knoicn." 

Then  at  once  he  began  to  show  them,  in  the  simplest 


28o  PAUL  FABER. 

interpretation,  that  the  hypocrite  was  one  who  pretended  to 
be  what  he  was  not ;  who  tried  or  consented  to  look  other 
and  better  than  he  was.  That  a  man,  from  unwiUingness 
to  look  at  the  truth  concerning  liimself,  might  be  but 
half-consciously  assenting  to  the  false  appearance,  would, 
he  said,  nowise  serve  to  save  him  from  whatever  of  doom 
was  involved  in  this  utterance  of  our  Lord  concerning 
the  crime.  These  words  of  explanation  and  caution  pre- 
mised, he  began  at  the  practical  beginning,  and  spoke  a 
few  forceful  things  on  the  necessity  of  absolute  truth  as 
to  fact  in  every  communication  between  man  and  man, 
telling  them  that,  so  far  as  he  could  understand  his  words 
recorded,  our  Lord's  objection  to  swearing  lay  chiefly  in 
this,  that  it  encouraged  untruthfulness,  tending  to  make 
a  man's  yea  less  than  yea,  his  nay  other  than  nay.  He 
said  that  many  people  who  told  lies  every  day,  would  be 
shocked  when  they  discovered  that  they  were  liars ;  and 
that  their  lying  must  be  discovered,  for  the  Lord  said 
so.  Every  untruthfulness  was  a  passing  hypocrisy,  and 
if  they  would  not  come  to  be  hypocrites  out  and 
out,  they  must  begin  to  avoid  it  by  speaking  every  man 
the  truth  to  his  neighbour.  If  they  did  not  begin  at  once 
to  speak  the  truth,  they  must  grow  worse  and  worse  liars. 
I'he  Lord  called  hypocrisy  leaven,  because  of  its  irresis- 
tible, perhaps  as  well  its  unseen,  growth  and  spread ;  he 
called  it  the  leaven  of  the  Pharisees,  because  it  was  the 
uU-pervading  quality  of  their  being,  and  from  them  was 
working  moral  dissolution  in  the  nation,  eating  like  a 
canker  into  it,  by  infecting  with  like  hypocrisy  all  who 
looked  up  to  them. 

"  Is  it  not  a  strange  drift  this  of  men,"  said  the  curate, 
"  to  hide  what  is,  under  the  veil  of  what  is  not  ?  to  seek 
refuge  in  lies,  as  if  that  Avhich  is  not,  could  be  an  armour 
of  adamant  ?  to  run  from  the  daylight  for  safety,  deeper 
into  the  cave?  In  the  cave  house  the  creatures  of 
tlie  night — the  tigers  and  hyenas,  the  serpent  and  the 
old  dragon  of  the  dark  ;  in  the  light  are  true  men  and 
women,  and  the  clear-eyed  angels.     But  the  reason  is  only 


A  CONSCIENCE.  281 

too  plain  ;  it  is,  alas  !  that  they  are  themselves  of  the  dark- 
ness and  not  of  the  light.  They  do  not  fear  their  own. 
They  are  more  comfortable  with  the  beasts  of  darkness 
than  with  the  angels  of  light.  They  dread  the  peering  of 
holy  eyes  into  their  hearts  ;  they  feel  themselves  naked 
ancl  fear  to  be  shamed,  therefore  cast  the  garment  of 
hypocrisy  about  them.  They  have  that  in  them  so 
strange  to  the  light  that  they  feel  it  must  be  hidden  from 
the  eye  of  day,  as  a  thing  hideous,  that  is,  a  thing  to  be 
hidden.  But  the  hypocrisy  is  worse  than  all  it  would 
hide.  That  they  have  to  hide  again,  as  a  more  hideous 
thing  still. 

"  God  hides  nothing.  His  very  work  from  the  begin' 
ning  is  ra'clation — a  casting  aside  of  veil  after  veil,  a 
showing  unto  men  of  truth  after  truth.  On  and  on,  from 
fact  to  fact  divine  he  advances,  until  at  length  in  his  Son 
Jesus,  he  unveils  his  very  face.  Then  begins  a  fresh  un- 
veiling, for  the  very  work  of  the  Father  is  the  work  the  Son 
himself  has  to  do — to  reveal.  His  life  was  the  unveiling 
of  himself,  and  the  unveiling  of  the  Son  is  still  going  on, 
and  is  that  for  the  sake  of  which  the  world  exists.  ^Vhcn 
he  is  unveiled,  that  is,  when  we  know  the  Son,  we  shall 
know  the  Father  also.  The  whole  of  creation,  its 
growth,  its  history,  the  gathering  total  of  human 
existence,  is  an  unveiling  of  the  Father.  He  is  the  life, 
the  eternal  life,  the  Only.  I  see  it — ah  !  believe  me — 
I  see  it  as  I  cannot  say  it.  From  month  to  month  it 
grows  upon  me.  The  lovely  home-light,  the  one  essence 
of  peaceful  being,  is  God  himself. 

"  He  loves  light  and  not  darkness,  therefore  shines, 
therefore  reveals.  True,  there  are  infinite  gulfs  in  him, 
into  which  our  small  vision  cannot  pierce,  but  they  are 
gulfs  of  light,  and  the  truths  there  are  invisible  only 
through  excess  of  their  own  clarity.  There  is  a  darkness 
that  comes  of  eftulgence,  and  the  most  veiling  of  all  veils 
is  the  light.  That  for  which  the  eye  exists  is  light,  but 
throttgh  light  no  human  eye  can  pierce. — I  find  myself 
beyond  my  depth.     I  am  ever  beyond  my  depth,  afloat 


282  PAUL  FABER. 

in  an  infinite  sea ;  but  the  depth  of  the  sea  knows  me, 
for  the  ocean  of  my  being  is  God. — What  I  would  say  is 
this,  that  the  light  is  not  blinding  because  God  would 
hide,  but  because  the  truth  is  too  glorious  for  our  vision. 
The  effulgence  of  himself  God  veiled  that  he  might 
unveil  it — in  his  Son.  Inter-universal  spaces,  seons, 
eternities- — what  word  of  vastness  you  can  find  or  choose. 
— take  unfathomable  darkness  itself,  if  you  will,  to 
express  the  infinitude  of  God,  that  original  splendour 
existing  only  to  the  consciousness  of  God  himself — I  say 
he  hides  it  not,  but  is  revealing  it  ever,  for  ever,  at  all 
cost  of  labour,  yea  of  pain  to  himself  His  whole 
creation  is  a  sacrificing  of  himself  to  the  being  and  well- 
being  of  his  little  ones,  that,  being  wrought  out  at  last 
into  partakers  of  his  divine  nature,  that  nature  may  be 
revealed  in  them  to  their  divinest  bliss.  He  brings 
hidden  things  out  of  the  light  of  his  own  being  into  the 
light  of  ours. 

'  "  But  see  how  difterent  we  are — until  we  learn  of  him  ! 
See  the  tendency  of  man  to  conceal  his  treasures,  to 
claim  even  truth  as  his  own  by  discovery,  to  hide  it  and 
be  proud  of  it,  gloating  over  that  which  he  thinks  he  has 
in  himself,  instead  of  groaning  after  the  infinite  of  God  ! 
We  would  be  for  ever  heaping  together  possessions, 
dragging  things  into  the  cave  of  our  finitude,  our  indi- 
vidual self,  not  perceiving  that  the  things  which  pass  that 
dreariest  of  doors,  whatever  they  may  have  been,  are 
thenceforth  but  '  straws,  small  sticks,  and  dust  of  the 
floor.'  ^^'hen  a  man  would  have  a  truth  in  thither  as  if 
it  were  of  private  interpretation,  he  drags  in  only  the  bag 
which  the  truth,  remaining  outside,  has  burst  and  left. 

"  Nowhere  are  such  children  of  darkness  born  as 
in  the  caves  of  hypocrisy  ;  nowhere  else  can  a  man  revel 
Avith  such  misshapen  hybrids  of  religion  and  sin.  But, 
as  one  day  will  be  found,  I  believe,  a  strength  of  physical 
light  before  which  even  solid  gold  or  blackest  marble 
becomes  transparent,  so  is  there  a  spiritual  light  before 
which  all  veils  of  falsehood  shall  shrivel  up  and  perish 


A  CONSCIENCE.  283 

and  cease  to  hide  ;  so  that,  in  individual  character,  in  the 
facts  of  being,  in  the  densest  of  Pharisaical  hypocrisy, 
there  is  nothing  covered  that  shall  not  be  revealed, 
nothing  hid  that  shall  not  be  known. 

"  If  then,  brother  or  sister,  thou  hast  that  which  would 
be  hidden,  make  haste  and  drag  the  thing  from  its  covert 
into  the  presence  of  thy  God,  thy  light,  thy  saviour,  that, 
if  it  be  in  itself  good,  it  may  be  cleansed,  if  evil,  it  may 
be  stung  through  and  through  with  the  burning  arrows  of 
truth,  and  perish  in  glad  relief     For  the  one  bliss  of  an 
evil  thing  is  to  perish  and  pass ;  the  evil  thing,  and  that 
alone,  is  the  natural  food  of  Death— nothing  else  will 
agree  with  the  monster.     If  we  have  such  foul  things,  I 
say,  within  the  circumference  of  our  known  selves,  we 
must  confess  the  charnel-fact  to  ourselves  and  to  God ; 
and  if  there  be  any  one  else  who  has  a  claim  to  know_  it, 
to  that  one  also  must  we  confess,  casting  out  the  vile  thing 
that  we  may  be  clean.     Let  us  make  haste  to  open  the 
doors  of  our  lips  and  the  windows  of  our  humility,  to  let 
out  the  demon  of  darkness,  and  in  the  angels  of  light — 
so  abjuring  the  evil.     Be  sure  that  concealment  is  utterly, 
absolutely  hopeless.     If  we  do  not  thus  oin-selves  open 
our  house,  the  day  will  come  when  a  roaring  blast  of  his 
wind,   or  the  flame  of  his  keen  lightning,  will  destroy 
every  defence  of  darkness,  and  set  us  shivering  before 
the  universe  in  our  naked  vileness  ;  for  there  is  nothing 
covered  that  shall  not  be  revealed,  neither  hid  that  shall 
not  be  known.     Ah,  w^ell  for  man  that  he  cannot  hide  ! 
AVhat  vaults  of  uncleanness,  what  sinks  of  deathful  horrors, 
Avould  not  the  souls  of  some  of  us  grow  !     But  for  every 
one  of  them,  as  for  the  universe,  comes  the  day  of  cleans- 
ing.    Happy  they  who   liasten  it !  who  open  wide  the 
doors,  take  the  broom  in  the  hand,  and  begin  to  sweep  1 
The  dust  may  rise  in  clouds  ;  the  offence  may  be  great ; 
the  sweeper  may  pant,  and  choke,  and  weep,  yea,  grow 
faint  and  sick  with  self  disgust ;  but  the  end  will  be  a 
clean  house,  and  the  light  and  wind  of  heaven  shining 
and  l.ilowing  clear  and  fresh  and  sweet  through  all  its 


284  P^UL  FABER. 

chambers.  Better  so,  than  have  a  hurricane  from  God 
burst  in  door  and  windows,  and  sweep  from  his  temple 
with  the  besom  of  destruction  everything  that  loveth 
and  maketh  a  he.  Brothers,  sisters,  let  us  be  clean.  The 
light  and  the  air  around  us  are  God's  vast  purifying  fur- 
nace :  out  into  it  let  us  cast  all  hypocrisy.  Let  us  be 
open-hearted,  and  speak  every  man  the  truth  to  his 
neighbour.     Amen." 

The  faces  of  the  little  congregation  had  been  staring 
all  the  time  at  the  speaker's,  as  the  flowers  of  a  little 
garden  stare  at  the  sun.  Like  a  white  lily  that  had  begun 
to  fade,  that  of  Juliet  had  drawn  the  eyes  of  the  curate, 
as  the  whitest  spot  always  will.  But  it  had  drawn  his 
heart  also.  Had  her  troubles  already  begun,  poor  girl ! 
he  thought.  Had  the  sweet  book  of  marriage  already 
begun  to  give  out  its  bitterness  ? 

It  was  not  just  so.  Marriage  was  good  to  her  still. 
Not  yet,  though  but  a  thing  of  this  world,  as  she  and  her 
husband  were  agreed,  had  it  begun  to  grow  stale  and 
wearisome.  She  was  troubled.  It  was  with  no  reaction 
against  the  opinions  to  which  she  had  practically  yielded  \ 
but  not  the  less  had  the  serpent  of  the  truth  bitten  her, 
for  it  can  bite  through  the  gauze  of  whatever  opinions  or 
theories.  Conscious,  persistent  wrong  may  harden  and 
thicken  the  gauze  to  a  quilted  armour,  but  even  through 
that  the  sound  of  its  teeth  may  wake  up  Don  Worm,  the 
conscience,  and  then  is  the  baser  nature  between  the  fell 
incensed  points  of  mighty  opposites.  It  avails  a  man 
little  to  say  he  does  not  believe  this  or  that,  if  the  while 
he  cannot  rest  because  of  some  word  spoken.  True 
speech,  as  well  as  true  scripture,  is  given  by  inspiration 
of  God ;  it  goes  forth  on  the  wind  of  the  Spirit,  with  the 
ministry  of  fire.  The  sun  will  shine,  and  the  wind  will 
blow,  the  floods  will  beat,  and  the  fire  will  burn,  until 
the  yielding  soul,  re-born  into  childhood,  spreads  forth 
its  hands  and  rushes  to  the  Fatlier. 

It  was  dark,  and  Juliet  took  the  offered  arm  of  the 
rector,  and  walked  with  him  towards  the  house.     Both 


A  CONSCIENCE.  2S5 

were  silent,  for  both  had  been  touched.  The  rector  was 
busy  tumbUng  over  the  contents  now  of  this  now  of  that 
old  chest  and  cabinet  in  the  lumber-room  of  his  memory, 
seeking  for  things  to  get  rid  of  by  holy  confession  ere 
the  hour  of  proclamation  should  arrive.  He  was  findms 
httle  yet  beyond  boyish  escapades,  and  faults  and  sins 
which  he  had  abjured  ages  ago  and  almost  forgotten. 
His  great  sin,  of  which  he  had  already  repented,  and  \yas 
studying  more  and  more  to  repent — ihat  of  undertaking 
holy  service  for  the  sake  of  the  loaves  and  the  fishes — then, 
in  natural  sequence,  only  taking  the  loaves  and  the 
fishes,  and  doing  no  service  in  return,  did  not  come 
under  the  name  of  hypocrisy,  being  indeed  a  crime 
patent  to  the  universe,  even  when  hidden  from  himself. 
When  at  length  the  heavy  lids  of  his  honest  sleepy-eyed 
nature  arose,  and  he  saw  the  truth  of  his  condition,  his 
dull,  sturdy  soul  had  gathered  itself  like  an  old  wrestler 
to  the  struggle,  and  hardly  knew  what  was  required  of  it, 
or  what  it  had  to  overthrow,  till  it  stood  panting  over  its 
adversary. 

Juliet  also  was  occupied— with  no  such  search  as  the 
rector's,  hardly  even  with  what  could  be  called  thought, 
but  with  something  that  must  either  soon  cause  the 
keenest  thought,  or  at  length  a  spiritual  callosity  :  some- 
where in  her  was  a  motion,  a  something  turned  and 
twisted,  ceased  and  began  again,  boring  like  an  auger ; 
or  was  it  a  creature  that  tried  to  sleep,  but  ever  and  anon 
started  awake,  and  with  fretful  claws  pulled  at  its  nest  in 
the  fibres  of  her  heart? 

The  curate  and  his  wife  talked  softly  all  the  way  back 
to  the  house. 

"  Do  you  really  think,"  said  Helen,  "  that  every  fault 
one  has  ever  committed  will  one  day  be  trumpeted  out 
to  the  universe?"' 

"  That  were  hardly  worth  the  while  of  the  universe," 
answered  her  husband.  "Such  an  age-long  howling  of 
evil  stupidities  would  be  enough  to  turn  its  brain  with 
ennui   and    disgust.      Nevertheless,  the    hypocrite   will 


286  PA  UL  FABER. 

certainly  know  himself  discovered,  and  shamed,  and 
unable  any  longer  to  hide  himself  from  his  neighbour. 
His  past  deeds  also  will  be  made  plain  to  all  who,  for 
further  ends  of  rectification,  require  to  know  them. 
Shame  will  then,  I  trust,  be  the  first  approach  of  his 
redemption." 

Juliet,  for  she  was  close  behind  them,  heard  his  words, 
and  shuddered. 

"  You  are  feeling  it  cold,  Mrs.  Faber,"  said  the  rector, 
and,  with  the  fatherly  familiarity  of  an  old  man,  drew  her 
cloak  better  around  her, 

"  It  is  not  cold,"  she  faltered  ;  "  but  somehow  the 
night-air  always  makes  me  shiver." 

The  rector  pulled  a  muffler  from  his  coat-pocket,  and 
laid  it  like  a  scarf  on  her  shoulders. 

"  How  kind  you  are  !"  she  murmured.  "  I  don't  de- 
serve it." 

"  Who  deserves  anything  ?"  said  the  rector.  "I  less, 
I  am  sure,  than  any  one  I  know.  Only,  if  you  will 
believe  my  curate,  you  have  but  to  ask,  and  have  what 
you  need." 

"  I  wasn't  the  first  to  say  that,  sir,"  Wingfold  struck  in, 
turning  his  head  over  his  shoulder. 

"  I  know  that,  my  boy,"  answered  Mr.  Bevis  ;  "  but 
you  were  the  first  to  make  me  want  to  find  it  true. — I 
say,  Mrs.  Faber,  what  if  it  should  turn  out  after  all, 
that  there  Avas  a  grand  treasure  hid  in  your  field  and 
mine,  that  we  never  got  the  good  of  because  we  didn't 
believe  it  was  there  and  dig  for  it  ?  What  if  this  scatter- 
brained curate  of  mine  should  be  right  when  he  talks  so 
strangely  about  our  li^■ing  in  the  midst  of  calling  voices, 
cleansing  fires,  baptizing  dews,  and  won't  hearken,  won't 
be  clean,  won't  give  up  our  sleep  and  our  dreams  for  the 
very  bliss  for  which  we  cry  out  in  them  !" 

The  old  man  had  stopped,  taken  off  his  hat,  and 
turned  towards  her.  He  spoke  with  such  a  strange 
solemnity  of  voice  that  it  could  hardly  have  been  believed 
his  by  those  who  knew  him  as  a  judge  of  horses  and 


A  CONSCIENCE.  287 

not  as  a  reader  of  prayers.  The  other  pair  had  stopped  also. 

"  I  should  call  it  very  hard,"  returned  Juliet,  "  to  come 
so  near  it  and  yet  miss  it." 

"  Especially  to  be  driven  so  near  it  against  one's  will, 
and  yet  succeed  in  getting  past  without  touching  it,"  said 
the  curate,  with  a  ilavour  of  asperity.  His  wife  gently 
pinched  his  arm,  and  he  was  ashamed. 

When  they  reached  home,  Juliet  went  straight  to  bed — 
or  at  least  to  her  room  for  the  night. 

"  I  say,  Wingfold,"  remarked  the  rector,  as  they  sat 
alone  after  supper,  "  that  sermon  of  yours  was  above 
your  congregation." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  right,  sir.  I  am  sorry.  But  if 
you  had  seen  their  faces  as  I  did,  perhaps  you  would 
have  modified  the  conclusion." 

"  I  am  very  glad  I  heard  it,  though,"  said  the  rector. 

They  had  more  talk,  and  when  Wingfold  went  up- 
stairs, he  found  Helen  asleep.  Annoyed  with  himself 
for  having  spoken  harshly  to  ]\Irs.  Faber,  and  more  than 
usually  harassed  by  a  sense  of  failure  in  his  sermon,  he 
threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  sat  brooding  and  praying 
till  the  light  began  to  appear.  Out  of  the  reeds 
shaken  all  night  in  the  wind,  rose  with  the  morning  this 

bird  :— 

THE  SMOKE. 

Lord,  I  have  laid  my  heart  upon  thy  altar, 

But  cannot  get  the  -wood  to  burn ; 
It  hardly  flares  ere  it  begins  to  falter, 

And  to  the  dark  return, 

Old  sap,  or  night-fallen  dew,  has  damped  the  fuel ; 

In  vain  my  breath  would  flame  provoke  ; 
Yet  see — at  every  poor  attempt's  renewal 

To  thee  ascends  the  smoke. 

'Tis  all  I  have — smoke,  failure,  foiled  endeavour, 
Coldness,  and  doubt,  and  palsied  Lack  : 

Such  as  I  have  I  send  thee  ; — perfect  giver, 
Send  thou  thy  lightning  Ijack. 

In  the  morning,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  Helen's 


2S8  PAUL  FADER. 

ponies  were  brought  to  the  door,  she  and  JuHct  got  into 
the  carriage,  Wingfold  jumped  up  behind,  and  they 
returned  to  Glaston.  Little  was  said  on  the  w^ay, 
and  JuHet  seemed  strangely  depressed.  They  left  her 
at  her  own  door. 

"What  did  that  look  mean?"  said  Wingfold  to  his 
wife,  the  moment  they  were  round  the  corner  of  Mr. 
Drew's  shop. 

"You  saw  it  then?"  returned  Helen.  "I  did  not 
think  you  had  been  so  quick." 

"  I  saw  what  I  could  not  help  taking  for  relief,"  said 
the  curate,  "  when  the  maid  told  her  that  her  husband 
was  not  at  home." 

They  said  no  more  till  they  reached  the  rectory,  where 
Helen  followed  her  husband  to  his  study. 

"  He  can't  have  turned  tyrant  already !"  she  said, 
resuming  the  subject  of  Juliet's  look.  "  But  she's  afraid 
of  him." 

"  It  did  look  like  it,"  rejoined  her  husband.  "  Oh, 
Helen,  what  a  hideous  thing  fear  of  her  husband  must 
be  for  a  woman,  who  has  to  spend  not  her  days  only  in 
his  presence,  but  her  nights  by  his  side  !  I  do  wonder 
so  many  women  dare  to  be  married.  They  would  need 
all  to  have  clean  consciences." 

"  Or  no  end  of  foith  in  their  husbands,"  said  Helen. 
"  If  ever  I  come  to  be  afraid  of  you,  it  will  be  because  I 
have  done  something  very  wrong  indeed." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,  Helen,"  returned  Wing 
fold.  "  There  are  very  decent  husbands  as  husbands  go, 
who  are  yet  unjust,  exacting,  selfish.  The  most  devoted 
of  wives  are  sometimes  afraid  of  the  men  they  yet  con- 
sider the  very  models  of  husbands.  It  is  a  brutal_  shame 
that  a  woman  should  feel  afraid,  or  even  uneasy,  instead 
of  safe,  beside  her  husband." 

"  You  are  always  on  the  side  of  the  women,  Thomas," 
said  his  wife;  "and  I  love  you  for  it  somehow — I  can't 
tell  why." 

"You  make  a  mistake  to  begin  with,  my  dear:  you 


A  CONSCIENCE.  289 

don't  love  me  because  I  am  on  the  side  of  the  women, 
but  because  I  am  on  the  side  of  the  wronged.  If  the 
man  happened  to  be  the  injured  party,  and  I  took  the 
side  of  the  woman,  you  would  be  down  on  me  like  an 
avalanche." 

"  I  daresay.  But  there  is  something  more  in  it.  I 
don't  think  I  am  altogether  mistaken.  You  don't  talk 
like  most  men.  lliey  have  such  an  ugly  way  of  assert- 
ing superiority,  and  sneering  at  women  !  That  you  never 
do,  and  as  a  woman  I  am  grateful  for  it." 

The  same  afternoon  Dorothy  Drake  paid  a  visit  to 
Mrs.  Faber,  and  was  hardly  seated  before  the  feeling 
that  something  was  wrong  arose  in  her.  Plainly  Juliet 
was  suffering— from  some  cause  she  wished  to  conceal. 
Several  times  she  seemed  to  turn  faint,  hurriedly  fanned 
herself,  and  drew  a  deep  breath.  Once  she  rose  hastily 
and  went  to  the  window,  as  if  struggling  with  some 
oppression,  and  returned  looking  very  pale. 

Dorothy  was  frightened. 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear?"  she  said. 

"Nothing,"  answered  Juliet,  trying  to  smile.  "  Perhaps 
I  took  a  little  cold  last  night,"  she  added  with  a  shiver. 

"  Have  you  told  your  husband  ?"  asked  Dorothy. 

"  I  haven't  seen  him  since  Saturday,"  she  answered 
quietly,  but  a  pallor  almost  deathly  overspread  her  face. 

"  I  hope  he  will  soon  be  home,"  said  Dorothy.  "Mind 
you  tell  him  how  you  feel  the  instant  he  comes  in." 

Juliet  answered  with  a  smile,  but  that  smile  Dorothy 
never  forgot.  It  haunted  her  all  the  way  home.  When 
she  entered  her  chamber,  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  petal  of  a 
monthly  rose,  which  had  dropped  from  the  little  tree  in  her 
window,  and  lay  streaked  and  crumpled  on  the  black 
earth  of  the  flower-pot :  by  one  of  those  queer  mental 
vagaries  in  which  the  imagination  and  the  logical  faculty 
seem  to  combine  to  make  sport  of  the  reason — "  How 
is  it  that  smile  has  got  here  before  me?"  she  said  to 
herself. 

She  sat  down  and  thought.  Could  it  be  that  Juliet 
u 


zgo  PAUL  FABER. 

liad,  like  herself,  begun  to  find  there  could  be  no  peace 
without  the  knowledge  of  an  absolute  peace  ?  If  it  were 
so,  and  she  would  but  let  her  know  it,  then,  sisters  at 
least  in  sorrow  and  search,  they  would  together  seek  the 
father  of  their  spirits,  if  haply  they  might  find  him ; 
together  they  would  cry  to  him — and  often  :  it  might  be 
he  would  hear  them,  and  reveal  himself.  Her  heart  was 
sore  all  day,  thinking  of  that  sad  face.  Juliet,  whether 
she  knew  it  or  not,  was,  like  herself,  in  trouble  because 
she  had  no  God. 

The  conclusion  shows  that  Dorothy  was  far  from  hope- 
less. That  she  could  believe  the  lack  of  a  God  was 
the  cause  unknown  to  herself  of  her  friend's  depression,  im- 
plies an  assurance  of  the  human  need  of  a  God,  and  a  hope 
there  might  be  one  to  be  found.  For  herself,  if  she 
could  but  find  him,  she  felt  there  would  be  nothing  but 
bliss  evermore.  Dorothy  then  was  more  hopeful  than 
she  herself  knew.  I  doubt  if  absolute  hopelessness  is 
ever  born  save  at  the  Avord,  Depart  from  vie.  Hope 
springs  with  us  from  God  himself,  and,  however  down- 
beaten,  however  sick  and  nigh  unto  death,  will  evermore 
lift  its  head  and  rise  again. 

She  could  say  nothing  to  her  father.  She  loved  him — 
oh,  how  dearly  !  and  trusted  him,  where  she  could  trust 
him  at  all — oh,  how  perfectly  !  but  she  had  no  confidence 
in  his  understanding  of  herself.  The  main  cause  whence 
arose  his  insufficiency  and  her  lack  of  trust  was,  that  his 
faith  in  God  was  as  yet  scarcely  more  independent  of 
thought-forms,  word-shapes,  dogma  and  creed,  than  that 
of  the  Gatholic  or  Calvinist.  How  few  are  there  whose 
faith  is  simple  and  mighty  in  the  Father  of  Jesus  Christ, 
waiting  to  believe  all  that  he  will  reveal  to  them  !  How 
many  of  those  who  talk  of  faith  as  the  one  needful  thing, 
will  accept  as  sufficient  to  the  razing  of  the  walls  of  par- 
tition between  you  and  them,  your  heartiest  declaration 
that  you  believe  ///  Him  with  the  whole  might  of  your 
nature,  lay  your  soul  bare  to  the  revelation  of  his  spirit, 
.Tnd  stir  up  your  will  to  obey  him  ? — And  then  comes 


A  CONSCIENCE.  291 

your  temptation — to  exclude,  namely,  from  your  love  and 
sympathy  the  weak  and  boisterous  brethren  who,  after  the 
fashion  possible  to  them,  believe  in  your  Lord,  because 
they  exclude  you,  and  put  as  little  confidence  in  your 
truth  as  in  your  insight.  If  you  do  know  more  of  Christ 
than  they,  upon  you  lies  the  heavier  obligation  to  be  true 
to  them,  as  was  St.  Paul  to  the  Judaizing  Christians, 
whom  these  so  much  resemble,. who  were  his  chief  hind- 
rance in  the  work  his  master  had  given  him  to  do.  In 
Christ  we  must  forget  Paul  and  Apollos  and  Cephas, 
pope  and  bishop  and  pastor  and  presbyter,  creed  and 
interpretation  and  theory.  Careless  of  their  opinions,  we 
must  be  careful  of  themselves — careful  that  we  have  salt 
in  ourselves,  and  that  the  salt  lose  not  its  savour,  that 
the  old  man,  dead  through  Christ,  shall  not  vampire-like 
creep  from  his  grave  and  suck  the  blood  of  the  saints,  by 
whatever  name  they  be  called,  or  however  little  they  may 
yet  have  entered  into  the  freedom  of  the  gospel  that  God 
is  light,  and  in  him  is  no  darkness  at  all. 

How  was  Dorothy  to  get  nearer  to  Juliet,  find  out  her 
trouble,  and  comfort  her? 

"  Alas  !  "  she  said  to  herself,  "  what  a  thing  is  marriage 
-  separating  friends  ! " 


yim 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  OF  GLASTON. 


JHE  same  evening  Dorothy  and  her  father 
walked  to  the  Old  House.  Already  the 
place  looked  much  changed.  The  very  day 
the  deeds  were  signed,  Mr.  Drake,  who  was 
not  the  man  to  postpone  action  a  moment 
after  the  time  for  it  was  come,  had  set  men 
at  work  upon  the  substantial  repairs.  The  house  was 
originally  so  well  built  that  these  were  not  so  heavy  as 
might  have  been  expected,  and  when  completed  they 
made  little  show  of  change.  The  garden,  however,  looked 
quite  another  thing,  for  it  had  lifted  itself  up  from  the 
wilderness  in  which  it  was  suffocated,  reviving  like  a 
repentant  soul  reborn.  Under  its  owner's  keen  watch, 
its  ancient  plan  had  been  rigidly  regarded,  its  ancient 
features  carefully  retained.  The  old  bushes  were  well 
trimmed,  but  as  yet  nothing  live,  except  weeds,  had 
been  uprooted.  The  hedges  and  borders,  of  yew  and 
holly  and  box,  tall  and  broad,  looked  very  bare  and 
b'roken  and  patchy  ;  but  now  that  the  shears  had,  after 
so  long  a  season  of  neglect,  removed  the  gathered  shade, 
the  naked  stems  and  branches  would  again  send  out  the 
young  shoots  of  the  spring,  a  new  birth  would  begin 
everywhere,  and  the  old  garden  would  dawn  anew.  For 
all  his  lack  of  sympathy  with  the  older  forms  of  religious 


THE  OLD  IIOVSE  OF  GL ASTON.  293 

economy  in  the  country,  a  thing,  alas  !  too  easy  to  account 
for,  the  minister  yet  loved  the  past  and  felt  its  mystery. 
He  said  once  in  a  sermon — and  it  gave  offence  to 
more  than  one  of  his  deacons,  for  they  scented  in  it 
Germanism, — "The  love  of  the  past,  the  desire  of  the 
future,  and  the  enjoyment  of  the  present,  make  an 
eternity,  in  which  time  is  absorbed,  its  lapse  lapses,  and 
man  partakes  of  the  immortality  of  his  Maker.  In  each 
present  personal  being,  we  have  the  whole  past  of  our 
generation  enclosed,  to  be  re-developed  with  endless 
difference  in  each  individuality.  Hence  perhaps  it 
comes  that,  every  now  and  then,  into  our  consciousnesses 
float  strange  odours  of  feeling,  strange  tones  as  of  by- 
gone affections,  strange  glimmers  as  of  forgotten  truths, 
strange  mental  sensations  of  indescribable  sort  and 
texture.  Friends,  I  should  be  a  terror  to  myself,  did  I 
not  believe  that  wherever  my  dim  consciousness  may 
come  to  itself,  God  is  there." 

Dorothy  would  have  hastened  the  lighter  repairs  inside 
the  house  as  well,  so  as  to  get  into  it  as  soon  as  possible  ; 
but  her  father  very  wisely  argued  that  it  would  be  a  pity 
to  get  the  house  in  good  condition,  and  then,  as  soon  as 
they  went  into  it,  and  began  to  find  how  it  could  be 
altered  better  to  suit  their  tastes  and  necessities,  have  to 
destroy  a  great  part  of  what  had  just  been  done.  His 
plan,  therefore,  was  to  leave  the  house  for  the  winter, 
now  it  was  weather-tight,  and  with  the  first  of  the  summer 
partly  occupy  it  as  it  was,  find  out  its  faults  and  capa- 
bilities, and  have  it  gradually  repaired  and  altered  to 
their  minds  and  requirements.  There  would  in  this  wa;, 
be  plenty  of  time  to  talk  about  everything,  even  to  the 
merest  suggestion  of  fancy,  and  discover  what  they  would 
really  like. 

But  ever  since  the  place  had  been  theirs,  Dorothy  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  going  almost  daily  to  the  house, 
with  her  book  and  her  work,  sitting  now  in  this,  now  \n 
that  empty  room,  undisturbed  by  the  noises  of  the  work- 
men, chiefly  outside  :  the  foreman  was  a  member  of  her 


294  PAUL  FABER. 

father's  church,  a  devout  man,  and  she  knew  every  one 
of  his  people.  She  had  taken  a  strange  fancy  to  those 
empty  rooms  :  perhaps  she  felt  them  like  her  own  heart, 
waiting  for  something  to  come  and  fill  them  with  life. 
Nor  was  there  anything  to  prevent  her,  though  the  work 
■was  over  for  a  time,  from  indulging  herself  in  going  there 
still,  as  often  as  she  pleased,  and  she  would  remain  there 
for  hours,  sometimes  nearly  the  whole  day.  In  her  pre- 
sent condition  of  mind  and  heart,  she  desired  and  needed 
solitude  :  she  was  one  of  those  who  when  troubled  rush 
from  their  fellows,  and,  urged  by  the  human  instinct 
after  the  divine,  seek  refuge  in  loneliness — the  cave  on 
Horeb,  the  top  of  mount  Sinai,  the  closet  witli  shut  door 
— any  lonely  place  where,  unseen,  and  dreading  no  eye, 
the  heart  may  call  aloud  to  the  God  hidden  behind  the 
veil  of  the  things  that  do  appear. 

How  different,  yet  how  fit  to  merge  in  a  mutual 
sympathy,  were  the  thoughts  of  the  two,  as  they  wandered 
about  the  place  that  evening !  Dorothy  was  thinking 
her  commonest  thought — how  happy  she  could  be  if  only 
she  knew  there  was  a  will  central  to  the  universe,  willing 
all  that  came  to  her — good  or  seeming-bad — a  AVill  whom 
she  might  love  and  thank  for  all  things.  He  would  be 
to  her  no  God  whom  she  could  thank  only  when  he  sent 
her  what  was  pleasant.  She  must  be  able  to  thank  him 
for  everything,  or  she  could  thank  him  for  nothing. 

Her  father  was  saying  to  himself  he  could  not  have 
believed  the  lifting  from  his  soul  of  such  a  gravestone  of 
debt,  would  have  made  so  little  difterence  to  his  happi- 
ness. He  fancied  honest  Jones,  the  butcher,  had  more 
mere  pleasure  from  the  silver  snuft-box  he  had  given  him, 
than  he  had  himself  from  his  fortune.  Relieved  he  cer- 
tainly was,  but  the  relief  was  not  happiness.  His  debt 
had  been  the  stone  that  blocked  up  the  gate  of  Paradise  : 
the  stone  was  rolled  away,  but  the  gate  was  not  therefore 
open.  He  seemed  for  the  first  time  beginning  to  under- 
stand what  he  had  so  often  said,  and  in  public  too,  and  had 
thought  he  undersLood^  that  God  himself,  and  not  any  or 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  OF  GLASTOiV.  295 

all  of  his  gifts,  is  the  life  of  a  man.  He  had  got  rid  of 
the  dread  imagination  that  God  had  given  him  the  money 
in  anger,  as  he  had  given  the  Israelites  the  quails,  nor 
did  he  find  that  the  possession  formed  any  barrier  be- 
tween him  and  God  :  his  danger  now  seemed  that  of 
forgetting  the  love  of  the  giver  in  his  anxiety  to  spend  the 
gift  according  to  his  Avill. 

"  You  and  I  ouglit  to  be  very  happy,  my  love,"  he 
said,  as  now  they  were  walking  home. 

He  had  often  said  so  before,  and  Dorothy  had  held 
her  peace  ;  but  now,  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  she 
rejoined,  in  a  low,  rather  broken  voice, 

"  Why,  papa?" 

"  Because  we  are  lifted  above  the  anxiety  that  was 
crushing  us  into  the  very  mud,'"'  he  answered,  with  sur- 
prise at  her  question. 

"  It  never  troubled  me  so  much  as  all  that,"  she 
answered.  "  It  is  a  great  relief  to  see  you  free  from  it, 
father ;  but  otherwise,  I  cannot  say  it  has  made  much 
difference  to  me." 

"  My  dear  Dorothy,"  said  the  minister,  "  it  is  time 
we  should  understand  each  other.  Your  state  of  mind 
has  for  a  long  time  troubled  me  ;  but  while  debt  lay 
so  heavy  upon  me  I  could  give  my  attention  to  no- 
thing else.  Why  should  there  be  anything  but  perfect 
confidence  between  a  father  and  a  daughter  who  belong 
to  each  other  alone  in  all  the  world?  Tell  me  what  it  is 
that  so  plainly  oppresses  you.  What  prevents  you  from 
opening  your  heart  to  me?  You  cannot  doubt  my 
love." 

"Never  for  one  moment,  father,"  she  answered, 
almost  eagerly,  pressing  to  her  heart  the  arm  on  which 
she  leaned.  "  I  know  I  am  safe  with  you  because  I  am 
]  ours,  and  yet  somehow  I  cannot  get  so  close  to  you 
as  I  would.  Something  comes  between  us,  and  prevents 
me." 

"  What  is  it,  my  child  ?  I  will  do  all  and  everything  I 
can  to  remove  it." 


296  PAUL  FABER. 

"  You  dear  father  !  I  don't  believe  ever  child  had  such 
a  father." 

"  Oh  yes,  my  dear !  many  have  had  better  fathers,  but 
none  better  than  I  hope  one  day  by  the  grace  of  God  to 
be  to  you.  I  am  a  poor  creature,  Dorothy,  but  I  love 
you  as  my  own  soul.  You  are  the  blessing  of  my  days, 
and  my  thoughts  brood  over  you  in  the  night :  it  would 
be  in  utter  content,  if  only  I  saw  you  happy.  If  your 
fiice  were  acquainted  with  smiles,  my  heart  would  be 
acquainted  with  gladness." 

For  a  time  neither  said  anything  more.  The  silent 
tears  were  streaming  from  Dorothy's  eyes.  At  length  she 
spoke. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  tell  you  what  it  is  without  hurting 
you,  father  !"  she  said. 

"  I  can  hear  anything  from  you,  my  child,"  he 
answeied. 

"  Then  1  will  try.  But  I  do  not  think  I  shall  ever 
quite  know  my  father  on  earth,  or  quite  be  able  to  open 
my  heart  to  him,  until  I  have  found  my  father  in 
heaven." 

"  Ah,  my  child  !  is  it  so  with  you  ?  Do  you  fear  you 
have  not  yet  given  yourself  to  the  Saviour  ?  Give  your- 
self now.     His  arms  are  ever  open  to  receive  you." 

"That  is  hardly  the  point,  father.— Will  you  let  me 
ask  you  any  question  I  please  ?" 

"  Assuredly,  my  child."  He  always  spoke,  though 
quite  unconsciously,  with  a  little  of  the  cx-cathedral  tone. 

"  Then  tell  me,  father,  are  you  just  as  sure  of  God  as 
you  are  of  me  standing  here  before  you  ?" 

She  had  stopped  and  turned,  and  stood  looking  him 
full  in  the  face  with  wide  troubled  eyes. 

Mr.  Drake  was  silent.  Hateful  is  the  professional, 
contemptible  is  the  love  of  display,  but  in  his  case  they 
floated  only  as  vapours  in  the  air  of  a  genuine  soul. 
He  was  a  true  man,  and  as  he  could  not  sayj^rx,  neither 
Avould  he  hide  his  no  in  a  multitude  of  words — at  least  to 
his  own  daughter :  he  was  not  so  sure  of  God  as  he  was 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  OF  G  LAS  TON.  -.97 

of  that  daughter,  with  those  eyes  looking  straight  into  his  ! 
Could  it  be  that  he  never  had  believed  in  God  at  all  ? 
The  thought  went  through  him  with  a  great  pang.  It  was 
as  if  the  moon  grew  dark  above  him,  and  the  earth 
withered  under  his  feet.  He  stood  before  his  child 
like  one  whose  hypocrisy  had  been  proclaimed  from  the 
housetop. 

"Are  you  vexed  with  me,  father,"  said  Dorothy 
sadly. 

"  No,  my  child,"  answered  the  minister,  in  a  voice  of 
unnatural  composure.  "  But  you  stand  before  me  there 
like  the  very  thought  started  out  of  my  soul,  alive  and 
visible,  to  question  its  own  origin." 

"Ah,  father!"  cried  Dorothy,  "let  us  question  our 
origin." 

The  minister  never  even  heard  the  words. 

"  That  very  doubt,  embodied  there  in  my  child,  has,  I 
now  know,  been  haunting  me,  dogging  me  behind,  ever 
since  I  began  to  teach  others,"  he  said,  as  if  talking  in 
his  sleep.  "Now  it  looks  me  in  the  face.  Am  I 
myself  to  be  a  castaway  ? — Dorothy,  I  am  not  sure  of  God 
— not  as  I  am  sure  of  you,  my  darling." 

He  stood  silent.  His  ear  expected  a  low-voiced, 
sorrowful  reply.  He  started  at  the  tone  of  gladness 
in  which  Dorothy  cried — 

"Then,  father,  there  is  henceforth  no  cloud  between 
us,  for  we  are  in  the  same  cloud  together !  It  does  not 
divide  us,  it  only  brings  us  closer  to  each  other.  Help 
me,  father :  I  am  trying  hard  to  find  God.  At  the  same 
time  I  confess  I  Avould  rather  not  find  him,  than 
find  him  such  as  I  have  sometimes  heard  you  represent 
him." 

"  It  may  well  be,"  returned  her  father — the  ex-cat/ic- 
dral,  the  professional  tone  had  vanished  utterly  for  the 
time,  and  he  spoke  with  the  voice  of  a  humble  true  man — 
"  — it  may  well  be  that  I  have  done  him  wrong  ;  for  since 
now  at  my  age  I  am  compelled  to  allow  that  I  am  not 
sure  of  him,  what  more  likely  than  that  I  may  have  been 


298  rACL  FABRR. 

cherishing  wrong  ideas  concerning  him,  and  so  not  look- 
ing in  the  right  direction  for  finding  him  ?" 

"Where  did  you  get  your  notions  of  God,  father — ■ 
those,  I  mean,  that  you  took  with  you  to  the  pulpit?' 

A  year  ago  even,  if  he  had  been  asked  the  same  ques- 
tion, he  would  at  once  have  answered,  "  From  the  word 
of  God ;"  but  now  he  hesitated,  and  minutes  passed 
before  he  began  a  reply.  For  he  saw  now  that  it  was  not 
from  the  Bible  he  had  gathered  them,  whence  soever  they 
had  come  first.  He  pondered  and  searched — and  found 
that  the  real  answer  eluded  him,  hiding  itself  in  a  time 
beyond  his  earliest  memory.  It  seemed  plain,  therefore, 
that  the  source  whence  first  he  began  to  draw  those 
notions,  right  or  wrong,  must  be  the  talk  and  behaviour 
of  the  house  in  which  he  was  born,  the  words  and  car- 
riage of  his  father  and  mother  and  their  friends.  Next 
source  to  that  came  the  sermons  he  heard  on  Sundays, 
and  the  books  given  him  to  read.  The  Bible  was  one  ot 
those  books,  but  from  the  first  he  read  it  through  the 
notions  with  which  his  mind  was  already  vaguely  filled, 
and  with  the  connnents  of  his  superiors  around  him. 
Then  follov.'ed  the  books  recommended  at  college,  this 
author  and  that,  and  the  lectures  he  heard  there  upon 
the  attributes  of  God  and  the  plan  of  salvation.  The 
spirit  of  commerce  in  the  midst  of  which  he  had  been 
bred,  did  not  occur  to  him  as  one  of  the  sources. 

But  he  had  perceived  enough.  He  opened  his  mouth 
and  bravely  answered  her  question  as  well  as  he  could, 
not  giving  the  Bible  as  the  source  from  which  he  had 
taken  any  one  of  the  notions  of  God  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  presenting. 

"  But  mind,"  he  added,  "  I  do  not  allow  that  therefore 
my  ideas  must  be  incorrect.  If  they  be  second-hand, 
they  may  yet  be  true.  I  do  admit  that  where  they  have 
continued  only  second-hand,  they  can  have  been  of  little 
value  to  me.'' 

"What  you  allow,  then,  father,"  said   Dorothy,  "is, 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  OF  GL ASTON.  299 

that  you  have  yourself  taken  none  of  your  ideas  direct 
from  the  fountain-head  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  confess  it,  my  child — Avith  this 
modification,  that  I  have  thought  many  of  them  over  a 
good  dealj  and  altered  some  of  them  not  a  little  to  make 
them  fit  the  moulds  of  truth  in  my  mind." 

"  I  am  so  glad,  father!"  said  Dorothy.  "I  was  posi- 
tively certain,  from  what  I  knew  of  you — which  is  more 
than  any  one  else  in  this  world,  I  do  believe — that  some 
of  the  things  you  said  concerning  God  never  could  have 
risen  in  your  own  mind." 

"They  might  be  in  the  Bible  for  all  that,"  said  the 
minister,  very  anxious  to  be  and  speak  the  right  thing. 
"  A  man's  heart  is  not  to  be  trusted  for  correct  notions 
of  God." 

"Nor  yet  for  correct  interpretation  of  the  Bible,  I 
should  think,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  True,  my  child,"  answered  her  father  with  a  sigh, 
"  — except  as  it  be  already  a  Godlike  heart.  The  Lord 
says  a  bramble-bush  cannot  bring  forth  grapes." 

"The  notions  you  gathered  of  God  from  other  people, 
must  have  come  out  of  their  hearts,  father?" 

"  Out  of  somebody's  heart." 

"  Just  so,"  answered  Dorothy. 

"  Go  on,  my  child,"  said  her  father.  "  Let  me  mider- 
stand  clearly  your  drift." 

"  .1  have  heard  Mr.  Wingfold  say,"  returned  Dorothy, 
"  that  however  men  may  have  been  driven  to  form  their 
ideas  of  God  before  Christ  came,  no  man  can,  with 
thorough  honest}^  take  the  name  of  a  Christian,  whose 
ideas  of  the  Father  of  men  are  gathered  from  any  other 
field  than  the  life,  thought,  words,  deeds,  of  the  only  Son 
of  that  Father.  He  says  it  is  not  from  the  Bible  as  a 
book  that  we  are  to  draw  our  ideas  of  God,  but  from  the 
living  Man  into  whose  presence  tliat  book  brings  us,  who 
is  alive  now,  and  gives  his  spirit  that  they  who  read 
about  him  may  understand  what  kind  of  being  he  is,  and 


300  PAUL  FABER. 

why  he  did  as  he  did,  and  know  him,  in  some  possible 
measure,  as  he  knows  himself. — I  can  only  repeat  the 
lesson  like  a  child," 

"I  suspect,"  returned  the  minister,  "that  I  have  been 
greatly  astray.  But  after  this,  we  will  seek  our  Father 
together,  in  our  brother,  Jesus  Christ." 

It  was  the  initiation  of  a  daily  lesson  together  in  the 
New  Testament,  which,  while  it  drew  their  hearts  closer 
to  each  other,  drew  them,  with  growing  delight,  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  ideal  of  humanity,  Jesus  Christ,  in  whom 
shines  the  glory  of  its  Father. 

A  man  may  look  another  in  the  face  for  a  hundred 
years  and  not  know  him.  Men  have  looked  Jesus  Christ 
in  the  face,  and  not  known  either  him  or  his  father.  It 
was  needful  that  he  should  appear,  to  begin  the  knowing 
of  him,  but  speedily  was  his  visible  presence  taken  away, 
that  it  might  not  become,  as  assuredly  it  would  have 
become,  a  veil  to  hide  from  men  the  Father  of  their 
spirits.  Do  you  long  for  the  assurance  of  some  sensible 
sign  ?  Do  you  ask  why  no  intellectual  proof  is  to  be 
had?  I  tell  you  that  such  would  but  delay,  perhaps 
altogether  impair  for  you,  that  better,  that  best,  that  only 
vision,  into  which  at  last  your  world  must  blossom — such 
a  contact,  namely,  with  the  heart  of  God  himself,  such  a 
perception  of  his  being,  and  his  absolute  oneness  with 
you,  the  child  of  his  thouglit,  the  individuality  softly 
parted  from  his  spirit,  yet  living  still  and  only  by  his 
presence  and  love,  as,  by  its  own  radiance,  will  sweep 
doubt  away  for  ever.  Being  then  in  the  light  and 
knowing  it,  the  lack  of  intellectual  proof  concerning  that 
which  is  too  high  for  it,  will  trouble  you  no  more  than 
would  your  inability  to  silence  a  metaphysician  who 
declared  that  you  had  no  real  existence.  It  is  for  the 
sake  of  such  vision  as  God  would  give  that  you  are 
denied  such  vision  as  you  would  have.  The  Father  of 
our  spirits  is  not  content  that  we  should  know  him  as 
we  now  know  each  other.  There  is  a  better,  closer, 
nearer  than  any  human  way  of  knowing,  and  to  that  he 


1UE   OLD  HOUSE   OF  GLASTON.  301 

is  guiding  us  across  all  the  swamps  of  our  unteachablc- 
ness,  the  seas  of  our  faithlessness,  the  deserts  of  our  igno- 
rance. It  is  so  very  hard  that  we  should  have  to  wait 
for  that  which  we  cannot  yet  receive  ?  Shall  we  com- 
plain of  the  shadows  cast  upon  our  souls  by  the  hand 
and  the  napkin  polishing  their  mirrors  to  the  receiving  of 
the  more  excellent  glory  ?  Have  patience,  children  of  the 
Father.  Pray  always,  and  do  not  faint.  The  mists  and 
the  storms  and  the  cold  will  pass — the  sun  and  the  sky  are 
for  evermore.  There  were  no  volcanoes  and  no  typhoons 
but  for  the  warm  heart  of  the  earth,  the  soft  garment  of 
the  air,  and  the  lordly  sun  over  all.  The  most  loving  or 
you  cannot  imagine  how  one  day  the  love  of  the  Father 
will  make  you  love  even  your  own. 

Much  trustful  talk  passed  between  father  and  daughter 
as  they  walked  home :  they  were  now  nearer  to  each 
other  than  ever  in  their  lives  before. 

"You  don't  mind  my  coming  out  here  alone,  papa?" 
said  Dorothy,  as,  after  a  little  chat  with  the  gate-keeper, 
they  left  the  park.  "  I  have  of  late  found  it  so 
good  to  be  alone  !  I  think  I  am  beginning  to  learn 
to  think." 

"  Do  in  everything  just  as  you  please,  my  child,"  said 
her  father.  "  I  can  have  no  objection  to  what  you  see 
good.     Only  don't  be  so  late  as  to  make  me  anxious." 

"  I  like  coming  early,"  said  Dorothy.  "These  lovely 
mornings  make  me  feel  as  if  the  struggles  of  life  were 
over,  and  only  a  quiet  old  age  were  left." 

The  father  looked  anxiously  at  his  daughter.  Was  she 
going  to  leave  him  ?  It  smote  him  to  the  heart  that  he 
had  done  so  little  to  make  her  life  a  blessed  one.  How 
hard  no  small  portion  of  it  had  been  !  How  worn  and 
pale  she  looked  !  Why  did  she  not  show  fresh  and 
bright  like  other  young  women — Mrs.  Faber  for  instance  ? 
He  had  not  guided  her  steps  into  the  way  of  peace  !  At 
all  events  he  had  not  led  her  home  to  the  house  of  wis- 
dom and  rest  !  Too  good  reason  why — he  had  not  him- 
self yet  found  that  home !     Henceforth,  for  her  sake  as 


302  PAUL  FABER. 

well  as  his  own,  he  would  besiege  the  heavenly  grace 
with  prayer. 

The  opening  of  his  heart  in  confessional  response  to 
his  daugliter,  proved  one  of  those  fresh  starts  in  the 
spiritual  life,  of  which  a  man  needs  so  many  as  he  climbs 
to  the  heavenly  gates. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


PAUL    FABER'S    dressing-room. 


i'ABER  did  not  reach  home  till  ca  few 
minutes  before  the  dinner-hour.  He  rode 
into  the  stable-yard,  entered  the  house  by 
the  surgery,  and  went  straight  to  his 
dressing-room ;  for  the  roads  were  vil- 
lainous, and  Ruber's  large  feet  had  made  a 
wonderful  sight  of  his  master,  who  respected  his  wife's 
carpet.  At  the  same  time  he  hoped,  as  it  was  so  near 
dinner-time,  to  find  her  in  her  chamber.  She  had,  how- 
ever, already  made  her  toilette,  and  was  waiting  his 
return  in  the  drawing-room.  Her  heart  made  a  false 
motion  and  stung  her  when  she  heard  his  steps  pass  the 
door  and  go  upstairs,  for  generally  he  came  to  greet  her 
the  moment  he  entered  the  house. — Had  he  seen  any- 
body? Had  he  heard  anything? — It  was  ten  dread- 
ful minutes  before  he  came  down,  but  he  entered  cheerily, 
with  the  gathered  warmth  of  two  days  of  pent-up  affection. 
She  did  her  best  to  meet  him  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. For  indeed  what  had  happened — except  her 
going  to  church  ?  If  nothing  had  taken  place  since  she 
saw  him — since  she  knew  him — why  such  perturbation  ? 
Was  marriage  a  slavery  of  the  very  soul,  in  which  a  wife 
was  bound  to  confess  everything  to  her  husband,  even  to 
her  most  secret  thoughts  and  feelings  ?     Or  was  a  hus- 


304 


PAUL  FABER. 


band  lord  not  only  over  the  present  and  future  of  his 
wife,  but  over  her  past  also  ?  Was  she  bound  to  disclose 
everything  that  lay  in  that  past  ?  If  Paul  made  no  claim 
upon  her  beyond  the  grave,  could  he  claim  back  upon 
the  dead  past  before  he  knew  her,  a  period  over  which 
she  had  now  no  more  control  than  over  that  when  she 
would  be  but  a  portion  of  the  material  all  ? 

But  whatever  might  be  Paul's  theories  of  marriage,  or 
claims  upon  his  wife,  it  was  enough  for  her  miserable  un- 
rest that  she  was  what  is  called  a  living  soul,  with  a 
history,  and  what  has  come  to  be  called  a  conscience — a 
something,  that  is,  as  most  people  regard  it,  which  has 
the  power,  and  uses  it,  of  making  uncomfortable. 

The  existence  of  such  questions  as  I  have  indicated, 
reveals  that  already  between  her  and  him  there  showed 
space,  separation,  non-contact :  Juliet  was  too  bewildered 
with  misery  to  tell  whether  it  was  a  cleft  of  a  hair's 
breadth,  or  a  gulf  across  which  no  cry  could  reach ;  this 
moment  it  seemed  the  one,  the  next  the  other.  _  The 
knowledge  which  caused  it,  had  troubled  her  while  he 
sought  her  love,  had  troubled  her  on  to  the  very  eve  of 
her  surrender.  The  deeper  her  love  grew,  the  more 
fiercely  she  wrestled  with  the  evil  fact.  A  low  moral 
development  and  the  purest  resolve  of  an  honest  nature, 
afforded  her  many  pleas,  and  at  length  she  believed 
she  had  finally  put  it  down.  She  had  argued  that, 
from  the  opinions  themselves  of  Faber,  the  thing  could 
not  consistently  fail  to  be  as  no  thing  to  him.  Even 
were  she  mistaken  in  this  conclusion,  it  would  be  to 
wrong  his  large  nature,  his  generous  love,  his  unselfish 
regard,  his  tender  pitifulness,  to  fail  of  putting  her  silent 
trust  in  him.  Besides  had  she  not  read  in  the  news- 
papers the  utterance  of  a  certain  worshipful  judge  on  the 
bench,  that  no  man  had  anything  to  do  with  his  wife's 
ante-nuptial  history  ?  The  contract  then  was  certainly 
not  retrospective.  What  in  her  remained  unsatisfied 
after  all  her  arguments,  reasons,  and  appeals  to  common 
sense  and   consequences,  she   strove   to   strangle,  and 


PAUL  FADER'S  DRESSING-ROOM.  305 

tliought,  hoped,  she  had  succeeded.  She  willed  her  will,^ 
made  up  her  mind,  yielded  to  Paul's  solicitations,  vnd 
put  the  whole  painful  thing  away  from  her. 

The  step  taken,  the  marriage  over,  nothing  could  any 
more  affect  either  fact.  Only,  unfortunately  for  the 
satisfaction  and  repose  she  had  desired  and  expected,  her 
love  to  her  husband  had  gone  on  growing  after  they  were 
married.  True  she  sometimes  fancied  it  otherwise,  but 
while  the  petals  of  the  rose  were  falling,  its  capsule  was 
filling  ;  and  notwithstanding  the  opposite  tendency  of  the 
deoxygenated  atmosphere  in  which  their  thoughts  moved, 
she  had  begun  already  to  long  after  an  absolute  union 
with  him.  But  this  growth  of  her  love,  and  aspiration 
after  its  perfection,  although  at  first  they  covered  what  was 
gone  by  with  a  deepening  mist  of  apparent  oblivion,  were 
all  the  time  bringing  it  closer  to  her  consciousness — out 
of  the  far  into  the  near.  And  now  suddenly,  that  shape 
she  knew  of,  lying  in  the  bottom  of  the  darkest  pool 
of  the  stagnant  Past,  had  been  stung  into  life  by  a 
wind  of  words  that  swept  through  Nesdey  chapel, 
had  stretched  up  a  hideous  neck  and  threatening  head 
from  the  deep,  and  was  staring  at  her  with  sodden  eyes  : 
henceforth  she  knew  that  the  hideous  Fact  had  its  ap- 
pointed place  between  her  and  her  beautiful  Paul,  the 
demon  of  the  gulfy  cleft  that  parted  them. 

The  moment  she  spoke  in  reply  to  his  greeting,  her 
husband  also  felt  something  dividing  them,  but  had  no 
presentiment  of  its  being  anything  of  import. 

"You  are  overtired,  my  love,"  he  said,  and  taking  her 
hand  felt  her  pulse.     It  was  feeble  and  frequent. 

"  What  have  they  been  doing  to  you,  my  darling?''  he 
asked.  "  Those  litde  demons  of  ponies  running  away 
again  ?" 

'•  No,"  she  answered,  scarce  audibly. 

"  Something  has  gone  wrong  with  you,"  he  persisted. 
"  Plave  you  caught  cold  ?  None  of  the  old  symptoms,  I 
hope  ?" 

'*None,    Paul.      There   is  nothing  the  matter,"  she 

X 


3CV  PAUL  FABER. 

answered,  laying  her  head  hghtly,  as  if  afraid  of  the 
liberty  she  took,  upon  his  shoulder.  His  arm  went 
round  her  waist. 

"  What  is  it,  then,  my  wife  T  he  said  tenderly. 

"  Which  would  you  rather  have,  Paul — have  me  die, 
or  do  something  wicked  ?" 

"  Juliet,  this  will  never  do  !"  he  returned,  quietly 
but  almost  severely,  "  You  have  been  again  giving 
the  reins  to  a  morbid  imagination.  Weakness  and 
folly  only  can  come  of  that.  It  is  nothing  better  than 
hysteria." 

"  No,  but  tell  me,  dear  Paul,"  she  persisted  plead- 
ingly.    "Answer  my  question.     Do,  please  !" 

"  There  is  no  such  question  to  be  answered,"  he  re- 
turned. "You  are  not  going  to  die,  and  I  am  yet  more 
certain  you  are  not  going  to  do  anything  wicked. — Are 
you  now  ?" 

"  No,  Paul.     Indeed  I  am  not.     But " 

"  I  have  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  went  to  church  at 
Nestley  last  night  !  Confound  them  all  with  their 
humbug  !  You  have  been  letting  their  infernal  nonsense 
get  a  hold  of  you  again  !  It  has  quite  upset  you — that, 
and  going  much  too  long  without  your  dinner.  What 
can  be  keeping  it  ?"  He  left  her  hurriedly,  and  rang  the 
bell.  "  You  must  speak  to  the  cook,  my  love.  She  is 
getting  out  of  the  good  habits  I  had  so  much  trouble  to 
teach  her.  But  no — no  !  you  shall  not  be  troubled  with 
my  servants.  I  will  speak  to  her  myself.  After  dinner 
I  will  read  you  some  of  my  favourite  passages  in  Mon- 
taigne. No,  you  shall  read  to  me  :  your  French  is  so 
much  better  than  mine." 

Dinner  was  announced,  and  nothing  more  was  said. 
Paul  ate  well,  Juliet  scarcely  at  all,  but  she  managed  to 
hide  from  him  the  offence.  They  rose  together  and 
returned  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  moment  Faber  shut  the  door,  Juliet  turned  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  as  he  came  up  to  her  said,  in  a 
voice  much  unlike  her  own, 


PAUL  FADER'S  DRRSSIXG-ROOM.  307 

"  Paul,  if  I  li'crc  to  do  anything  very  bad,  as  bad  as 
could  be,  would  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"  Come,  my  love,"  expostulated  Faber,  speaking  more 
gently  than  before,  for  he  had  had  his  dinner,  "  surely 
you  are  not  going  to  spoil  our  evening  with  anymore  such 
nonsense  !" 

"  Answer  me,  Paul,  or  I  shall  think  you  do  not  love 
me,"  she  said,  and  the  tone  of  her  entreaty  verged  upon 
demand.  "  Would  you  forgive  mc  if  I  had  done  some- 
thing very  bad  ?" 

"Of  course  I  should,"'  he  answered,  with  almost  irri- 
tated haste,  "  — that  is,  if  I  could  ever  bring  myself  to 
allow  anything  you  did  was  wrong.  Only,  you  would 
witch  me  out  of  opinion  and  judgment  and  everything 
else  with  two  words  from  your  dear  lips." 

"Should  I,  Paul?"  she  said;  and  lifting  her  face  from 
his  shoulder,  she  looked  up  in  his  from  the  depths  of  two 
dark  fountains  full  of  tears.  Never  does  the  soul  so 
nearly  identify  itself  with  matter  as  when  revealing  itself 
through  the  eyes ;  never  does  matter  so  nearly  lose  itself 
in  spiritual  absorption,  as  Avhcn  two  eyes  like  Juliet's  are 
possessed  and  glorified  by  the  rush  of  the  soul  througli 
tlieir  portals.  Faber  kissed  eyes  and  lips  and  neck  in  a 
glow  of  delight.  She  was  th.e  vision  of  a  most  blessed 
dream,  and  she  was  his,  all  and  altogether  his!  He 
never  thought  then  how  his  own  uncreed  and  the  prayer- 
book  were  of  the  same  mind  that  Death  would  one  day 
ixut  them.  There  is  that  in  every  high  and  simple  feel- 
ing that  stamps  it  widi  eternity.  For  my  own  i)art  I 
believe  that,  if  life  has  not  long  before  twinned  any 
twain,  Death  can  do  nothing  to  divide  them.  Tlie 
nature  of  each  and  every  pure  feeling,  even  in  tlie  man 
who  may  sin  away  the  very  memory  of  it,  is  immortal ; 
and  who  knows  from  under  what  a  deptli  of  ashes  the 
lo\-e  of  the  saving  God  may  )-et  revive  it ! 

The  next  moment  the  doctor  was  summoned.  ^Vheu 
he  returned,  Juliet  was  in  bed,  and  pretended  to  be 
asleep 

X  1 


joS  I'AUJ.  lABUK. 

In  the  morning  she  appeared  at  the  breakfast  table  so 
pale,  so  worn,  so  troubled,  that  her  husband  was  quite 
anxious  about  her.  All  she  would  confess  to  was,  that 
she  had  not  slept  well,  and  had  a  headache.  Attributing 
her  condition  to  a  nervous  attack,  he  gave  her  some 
medicine,  took  her  to  the  drawing-room,  and  prescribed 
the  new  piano,  which  he  had  already  found  the  best  of  all 
sedatives  for  her.  She  loathed  the  very  thouglit  of  it — 
could  no  more  have  touched  it  than  if  the  ivory  keys  had 
been  white  hot  steel.  She  watched  him  from  the  window 
while  he  mounted  his  horse,  but  the  moment  the  last  red 
gleam  of  Ruber  ^■anished,  she  flung  her  arms  above  her 
head,  and  with  a  stifled  cry  threw  herself  on  a  couch, 
stuffed  her  handkerchief  into  her  mouth,  and  in  fierce 
dumb  agony,  tore  it  to  shreds  with  hands  and  teeth. 
Presently  she  rose,  opened  the  door  almost  furtively,  and 
stole  softly  down  the  stair,  looking  this  way  and  that,  like 
one  intent  on  some  evil  deed.  At  the  bottom  she  pushed 
a  green  baize-covered  door,  peeped  into  a  passage,  then 
crept  on  tiptoe  towards  the  surgery.  Arrived  there  she 
darted  to  a  spot  she  knew,  and  stretched  a  trembling 
hand  towards  a  bottle  full  of  a  dark-coloured  liquid. 
As  instantly  she  drew  it  back,  and  stood  listening 
with  bated  breath  and  terrified  look.  It  was  a  foot- 
step approaching  the  outer  door  of  the  surgery !  She 
turned  and  fled  from  it,  still  noiseless,  and  never 
stopped  till  she  was  in  her  own  room.  There  she 
shut  and  locked  the  door,  fell  on  her  knees  by  tlie 
bedside,  and  pressed  her  face  into  the  coverlid.  She 
had  no  thought  of  praying.  She  wanted  to  hide,  only  to 
hide.  Neither  was  it  from  old  habit  she  fell  upon  her 
knees,  for  she  had  never  been  given  to  kneeling.  I 
cannot  but  think,  nevertheless,  that  there  was  a  dumb 
germ  of  prayer  at  the  heart  of  the  action — that  falling 
upon  her  knees,  and  that  hiding  of  her  face.  The  same 
moment  something  took  place  within  her  to  which  she 
could  have  given  no  name,   which  she  could  have  re- 


rAUL  FADER'S  DRESSING-ROOM.  309 

presented  in  no  words,  a  something  which  came  she 
knew  not  whence,  was  she  knew  not  what,  and  went 
she  knew  not  whither,  of  which  indeed  she  would  never 
liave  become  aware  except  for  what  followed,  but 
wliich  yet  so  wrought,  that  slie  rose  from  her  knees 
saying  to  herself,  with  clenched  teeth  and  burning  eyes, 
"  I  7oill  tell  him." 

As  if  she  had  known  the  moment  of  her  death  near,  she 
began  mechanically  to  set  everything  in  order  in  the 
room,  and  as  she  came  to  herself  she  was  saying, 
"  Let  him  kill  me.  I  wish  he  would.  I  am  quite 
willing  to  die  by  his  hand.  He  will  be  kind,  and  do 
it  gently.     He  knows  so  many  ways  !" 

It  was  a  terrible  day.  She  did  not  go  out  of  her 
room  again.  Her  mood  changed  a  hundred  times.  The 
resolve  to  confess  alternated  with  wild  mockery  and 
laughter,  but  still  returned.  She  would  struggle  to 
persuade  herself  that  her  whole  condition  was  one  of 
foolish  exaggeration,  of  senseless  excitement  about 
notliing — the  merest  delirium  of  feminine  fastidiousness  ; 
and  the  next  instant  would  turn  cold  with  horror  at  a  fresh 
glimpse  of  the  mere  fact.  What  could  the  wretched  matter 
be  to  him  now — or  to  her?  ^Vho  was  the  worse,  or  had 
ever  been  the  worse  but  herself  ?  And  what  did  it 
amount  to  ?  What  claim  had  any  one,  what  claim  could 
even  a  God,  if  such  a  being  there  were,  have  upon  tiie 
past  which  had  gone  from  her,  was  no  more  in  any 
possible  sense  within  her  reach  than  if  it  had  never 
been  ?  Was  it  not  as  if  it  had  never  been  ?  Was  the 
woman  to  be  hurled — to  hurl  herself  into  misery  for  the 
fault  of  the  girl  ?  It  was  all  nonsense — a  trifle  at  worst 
— a  disagreeable  trifle,  no  doubt,  but  still  a  trifle  !  Only 
would  to  God  she  had  died  rather— even  although  then 
she  would  never  have  known  Paul ! — Tut !  slie  would 
never  have  thought  of  it  again  but  for  that  horrid  woman 
that  lived  over  the  draper's  shop  !  All  wouUl  have 
been   well   if  she   had   but   kept   from   thinking  about 


310  rAUL  FABER. 

it  !  Nobody  would  have  been  a  hair  the  wuise  then  ! — 
Eut,  poor  Paul ! — to  be  niarried  to  such  a  woman  as 
she  ! 

If  she  were  to  be  so  foolish  as  let  him  know,  how 
would  it  strike  Paul  ?  What  would  he  think  of  it  ? 
Ought  she  not  to  be  sure  of  that  before  she  committeti 
herself- — before  she  uttered  the  irrevocable  words  ?  Would 
he  call  it  a  trifle,  or  would  he  be  ready  to  kill  her? 
True,  he  had  no  right,  he  could  have  no  right  to  know  ; 
but  how  horrible  that  there  should  be  any  thought  ot 
right  between  them  !  still  worse,  anything  whatever  be- 
tween them  that  he  had  no  right  to  know  !  worst  of  all, 
that  she  did  not  belong  to  him  so  utterly  that  he  must 
have  a  right  to  know  ei^try  thing  about  her  !  She  7voiild 
tell  him  all  !  She  would  !  she  would  !  she  had  no  choice ! 
she  must ! — But  she  need  not  tell  him  now.  She  was 
not  strong  enough  to  utter  the  necessary  words.  Eut 
that  made  the  thing  very  dreadful  !  If  she  could  not 
speak  the  words,  how  bad  it  must  really  be  ! — Impossible 
to  tell  her  Paul  !  That  was  pure  absurdity. — Ah,  but 
she  could  not !  She  would  be  certain  to  faint — or  fall 
dead  at  his  feet.  That  would  be  well !— Yes  !  that 
would  do  !  She  would  take  a  wine-glassful  of  laudanum 
just  before  she  told  him  ;  then,  if  he  was  kind,  she  would 
confess  the  ojiium,  and  he  could  save  her  if  he  pleased ; 
if  he  was  hard,  she  would  say  nothing,  and  die  at  his 
feet.  She  had  hoped  to  die  in  his  arms — all  that  was 
left  of  eternity.  Eut  her  life  was  his,  he  had  saved  it 
with  his  own — oh  horror!  that  it  should  have  been  to 
disgrace  liim  I — and  it  should  not  last  a  moment  longer 
tlKvU  it  was  a  pleasure  to  him. 

Worn  out  with  thought  and  agony,  she  often  fell  asleep 
— only  to  start  awake  in  fresh  misery,  and  go  over  and 
over  the  same  torturing  round.  Long  before  her  husband 
appeared,  she  was  in  a  burning  fever.  When  he  came, 
he  put  lier  at  once  to  bed,  and  tended  her  with  a  solici- 
tude as  anxious  as  it  was  gentle.  He  soothed  her  to 
sleep,  and  then  went  and  had  some  dinner. 


PAUL  FABER'S  DRESSING-ROOM.  311 

On  his  return,  finding,  as  he  Iiad  expected,  that  she 
still  slept,  he  sat  down  by  her  bedside,  and  watched. 
Her  slumber  was  broken  with  now  and  then  a  deep 
sigh,  now  and  then  a  moan.  Alas,  that  we  should  do 
the  things  that  make  for  moan  ! — but  at  least  I  under- 
stand why  we  are  left  to  do  them  :  it  is  because  we  can. 
A  dull  fire  was  burning  in  her  soul,  and  over  it  stood 
the  caldron  of  her  history,  and  it  bubbled  in  sighs  and 
moans. 

Faber  was  ready  enough  to  attribute  everything  human 
to  a  physical  origin,  but  as  he  sat  there  pondering  her 
condition,  recalling  her  emotion  and  strange  speech  of 
the  night  before,  and  watching  the  state  she  was  now  in, 
an  uneasiness  began  to  gather — undefined,  but  other 
than  concerned  her  health.  Something  must  be  wrong 
somewhere.  He  kept  constantly  assuring  himself  that 
at  worst  it  could  be  but  some  mere  moleheap,  of  which 
her  lovelily  sensitive  organization,  under  the  influence  of 
a  foolish  preachment,  made  a  mountain.  Still,  it  was  a 
huge  disorder  to  come  from  a  trifle  !  At  the  same  time 
who  knew  better  than  he  upon  what  a  merest  trifle 
nervous  excitement  will  fix  the  attention  !  or  how  to  the 
mental  eye  such  a  speck  will  grow  and  grow  until  it 
absorb  the  universe  !  Only  a  certain  other  disquieting 
thought,  having  come  once,  would  keep  returning — that, 
thoroughly  as  he  believed  himself  actjuainted  with  her 
mind,  he  had  very  little  knowledge  of  her  history.  He 
did  not  know  a  single  friend  of  hers,  had  never  met  a 
person  who  knew  anything  of  her  fiimily,  or  had  even  an 
actiuaintance  wdth  her  earlier  than  his  own.  The  thing 
he  most  dreaded  was,  that  the  shadow  of  some  old  affec- 
tion had  returned  upon  her  soul,  and  that,  in  her  exces- 
sive delicacy,  she  heaped  blame  upon  herself  that  she 
had  not  absolutely  forgotten  it.  He  flung  from  him  in 
scorn  every  slightest  suggestion  of  blame,  //wjuliet !  his 
glorious  Juliet !  Bah  ! — But  he  must  get  her  to  say  what 
the  matter  was — for  her  own  sake  ;  he  must  help  her  to 
reveal  her  trouble,  whatever  it  might  be — else  how  was 


312 


PAUL  FABER. 


he  to  do  his  best  to  remove  it !     She  should  find  he  knew 
how  to  be  generous  ! 

Thus  thinking,  he  sat  patient  by  her  side,  watching 
until  the  sun  of  her  consciousness  should  rise  and  scatter 
the  clouds  of  sleep.  Hour  after  hour  he  sat,  and  still 
she  slept,  outwearied  with  tlie  rack  of  emotion.  Morning 
had  begun  to  peep  gray  through  the  window-curtains, 
when  she  woke  with  a  cry. 

She  had  been  dreaming.  In  the  little  chapel  in  Nestley 
Park,  she  sat  listening  to  the  curate's  denouncement  of 
hypocrisy,  when  suddenly  the  scene  changed  :  the  pulpit 
had  grown  to  a  mighty  cloud,  upon  which  stood  an  arch- 
angel with  a  trumpet  in  his  hand.  He  cried  that  the 
hour  of  the  great  doom  had  come  for  all  who  bore  within 
them  the  knowledge  of  any  evil  thing  neither  bemoaned 
before  God  nor  confessed  to  man.  Then  he  lifted  the 
great  silver  trumpet  with  a  gleam  to  his  lips,  and  every 
fibre  of  her  flesh  quivered  in  expectation  of  the  tearing 
blast  that  was  to  follow ;  when  instead,  soft  as  a  breath 
of  spring  from  a  bank  of  primroses,  came  the  words, 
uttered  in  tlie  gentlest  of  sorrowful  voices,  and  the  voice 
seemed  that  of  her  unbelieving  Paul :  "  I  will  arise  and 
go  to  my  Father."  It  was  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  she 
woke  with  a  cry.  It  was  one  of  indescribable  emotion. 
When  she  saw  his  face  bending  over  her  in  anxious  love,^ 
she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  burst  into  a  storm  of 
weeping,  and  sobbed, 

"  Oh  Paul !  husband !  forgive  me.  I  have  sinned 
against  you  terribly — the  worst  sin  a  woman  can  commit, 
dh  Paul !  Paul !  make  me  clean,  or  I  am  lost." 

"  Juliet,  you  are  raving,"  he  said,  bewildered,  a  little 
angry,  and  at  her  condition  not  a  little  alarmed.  For 
the  confession,  it  was  preposterous  :  they  had  not  been 
many  weeks  married  !  "  Calm  yourself,  or  you  will  give 
me  a  lunatic  for  a  wife  !"  he  said.  Then  changing  his 
tone,  for  his  heart  rebuked  him,  when  he  saw  the  ashy 
despair  that  spread  over  her  face  and  eyes,  "  Be  still,  my 
precious,"  he  went  on.     "  All  is  well.     You  have  been 


rAUL  FABER'S  DRESSING-ROOM.  313 

dreaming,  and  are  not  yet  quite  awake.  It  is  the  morphia 
you  had  last  night !  Don't  look  so  frightened.  It  is 
only  your  husband.     No  one  else  is  near  you." 

With  the  tenderest  smile  he  sought  to  reassure  her, 
and  would  have  gently  released  himself  from  the  agonized 
clasp  of  her  arms  about  his  neck,  that  he  might  get  her 
something.     But  she  tightened  her  hold. 

"  Don't  leave  me,  Paul,"  she  cried.  "  I  was  dreaming, 
but  I  am  wide  awake  now,  and  know  only  too  well  what 
I  have  done." 

"  Dreams  are  nothing.  The  will  is  not  in  them,"  he 
said. 

But  the  thought  of  his  sweet  wife  even  dreaming  a  thing 
to  be  repented  of  in  such  dismay,  tore  his  heart.  For  he 
was  one  of  the  many — not  all  of  the  purest — who  cherish 
an  ideal  of  woman  which,  although  indeed  poverty-stricken 
and  crude,  is  to  their  minds  of  snowy  favour,  to  their  judg- 
ment of  loftiest  excellence.  I  trust  in  God  that  many  a 
woman,  despite  the  mud  of  doleful  circumstance,  yea, 
even  the  defilement  that  comes  first  from  within,  has  risen 
to  a  radiance  of  essential  innocence  ineftably  beyond  that 
whose  form  stood  white  in  Faber's  imagination.  For  I 
see  and  understand  a  little  how  God,  giving  righteous- 
ness, makes  pure  of  sin,  and  that  verily — by  no  theological 
quibble  of  imputation,  by  no  play  with  words,  by  no  shut- 
ting of  the  eyes,  no  oblivion,  wilful  or  irresistible,  but  by 
very  fact  of  cleansing,  so  that  the  consciousness  of  the 
sinner  becomes  glistering  as  the  raiment  of  the  Lord  on 
the  mount  of  his  transfiguration.  I  do  not  expect  the 
Pharisee  who  calls  the  sinner  evil  names,  and  drags  her 
up  to  judgment,  to  comprehend  this ;  but,  woman,  cry  to 
thy  Father  in  heaven,  for  he  can  make  thee  white,  even 
to  the  contentment  of  that  womanhood  which  thou  hast 
'hyself  outraged. 

Faber  unconsciously  pri'led  himself  on  the  severity  of 
his  requirements  of  woman,  and  saw  his  own  image  re- 
flected in  the  polish  of  his  ideal ;  and  now  a  fear  whose 
presence  he  would  not  acknowledge  began  to  gnaw  at  his 


314  PAUL  LAIU'.R. 

heart,  a  vague  suggestion's  horrid  image,  to  wliich  he 
would  yield  no  space,  to  flit  about  his  brain. 

"  Would  to  God  it  were  a  dream,  Paul !"  answered  the 
stricken  wife. 

"  You  foolish  child  !"  returned  the  nigh  trembling  hus- 
band, "how  can  you  expect  me  to  believe,  married  but 
yesterday,  you  have  already  got  tired  of  me  !'' 

"  Tired  of  you,  Paul !  I  should  desire  no  other  eternal 
paradise  than  to  lie  thus  under  your  eyes  for  ever." 

"  Then  for  my  sake,  my  darling  wife,  send  away  this 
extravagance,  this  folly,  this  absurd  fancy  that  has  got 
such  a  hold  of  you.  It  will  turn  to  something  serious  if 
)'0U  do  not  resist  it.  There  can  be  no  truth  in  it,  and  I 
am  certain  that  one  with  any  strength  of  character  can  do 
much  at  least  to  prevent  the  deeper  rooting  of  a  fixed 
idea."  But  as  he  spoke  thus  to  her,  in  his  own  soul  he 
was  as  one  fighting  the  demons  off"  with  a  fan.  "  Tell  me 
what  the  mighty  matter  is,''  he  went  on,  "  that  I  may 
assure  you  it  is  nothing — that  I  may  swear  to  you  I 
love  you  the  more  for  the  worst  weakness  you  have 
to  confess." 

"Ah,  my  love!"  returned  Juliet,  "how  like  you  are 
now  to  the  Paul  I  have  dreamed  of  so  often  !  But  you 
will  not  be  able  to  forgive  me.  I  have  read  somewhere 
that  men  never  forgive — that  their  honour  is  before  their 
wives  with  them.  Paul !  if  you  should  not  be  able  to 
forgive  me,  you  must  help  me  to  die,  and  not  be  cruel 
to  me." 

"Juliet,  I  will  not  listen  to  any  more  such  foolish 
words.  Either  tell  me  plainly  what  you  mean,  that  I  may 
convince  you  what  a  goose  you  are,  or  be  quiet  and  go  to 
sleep  again." 

"  Can  it  be  that  after  all  it  does  not  signify  so  much  ?" 
she  said  aloud,  but  only  to  herself,  meditating  in  the  light 
of  a  little  glow-worm  of  hope.  "  Oh  if  it  could  be  so  ! 
And  what  is  it  really  so  much  !  I  have  not  murdered 
anybody  ! — I  will  tell  you,  Paul  !" 

She  drew  his  head  closer  down,  laid  her  lips  to  his 


PAUL  FADER'S  DRKSSIXG-ROOM.  315 

ear,  gave  a  great  gasp,  and  whispered  two  or  three 
words. 

He  started  up,  sundering  at  once  the  bonds  of  lier 
clasped  hands,  cast  one  brief  stare  at  her,  turned,  walked 
with  agreatciuick  stride  to  his  dressing-room,  entered,  and 
closed  the  door. 

As  if  with  one  rush  of  a  fell  wind,  they  were  ages, 
deserts,  empty  star-spaces  apart!  She  was  outside  the 
universe,  in  the  cold  frenzy  of  infinite  loneliness.  The 
wolves  of  despair  were  howling  in  her.  But  Paul  was  in 
the  next  room  !  There  was  only  the  door  between  them  ! 
She  sprung  from  her  bed  and  ran  to  a  closet.  The 
next  moment  she  appeared  in  her  husband's  dressing- 
room. 

Paul  sat  sunk  together  in  his  chair,  his  head  hanging 
forward,  his  teeth  set,  his  whole  shape,  in  limb  and 
feature,  carrying  the  show  of  profound,  of  irrecoverable 
injury.  He  started  to  his  feet  when  she  entered.  She 
did  not  once  lift  her  eyes  to  his  face,  but  sunk  on  her 
knees  before  him,  hurriedly  slipped  her  night-gown  from 
her  shoulders  to  her  waist,  and  over  her  head,  bent 
towards  the  floor,  held  up  to  him  a  riding-whip. 

They  were  baleful  stars  that  looked  down  on  tb.at 
naked  world  beneath  them. 

To  me  scarce  anything  is  so  utterly  pathetic  as,  the 
back.  That  of  an  animal  even  is  full  of  sad  suggestion. 
Ikit  the  human  back  !— It  is  the  other,  the  dark  side 
of  the  human  moon;  the  blind  side  of  the  being,  de- 
fenceless, and  exposed  to  everything  ;  the  ignorant  side, 
turned  towards  the  abyss  of  its  unknown  origin  ;  the 
unfeatured  side,  eyeless  and  dumb  and  helpless— the 
enduring  animal  of  the  marvellous  commonwealth,  to  be 
given  to  the  smiter,  and  to  bend  beneath  the  bm-den — 
lovely  in  its  patience  and  the  tender  forms  of  its 
strength. 

An  evil  word,  resented  by  the  lowest  of  our  sisters, 
rushed  to  the  man's  lips,  but  died  there  in  a  strangled 
ipurmur. 


3i6  PAUL  FABER. 

•'  Paul ! "  said  Juliet,  in  a  voice  from  whose  tone  it 
seemed  as  if  her  soul  had  sunk  away,  and  was  crying  out 
of  a  hollow  place  of  the  earth,  "take  it— take  it.  Strike 
me." 

He  made  no  reply — stood  utterly  motionless,  his 
teeth  clenched  so  hard  that  he  could  not  have  spoken 
without  grinding  them.  She  waited  as  motionless,  her  face 
bowed  to  the  floor,  the  whip  held  up  over  her  head. 

"Paul!"  she  said  again,  "you  saved  my  life  once: 
save  my  soul  now.     Whip  me,  and  take  me  again." 

He  answered  with  only  a  strange  unnatural  laugh 
through  his  teeth. 

"  Whip  me,  and  let  me  die  then,"  she  said. 

He  spoke  no  word.  She  spoke  again.  Despair  gave 
her  both  insight  and  utterance — despair  and  great  love, 
and  the  truth  of  God  that  underlies  even  despair. 

"You  pressed  me  to  marry  you,"  she  said:  "what 
was  I  to  do  }  How  could  I  tell  you  ?  And  I  loved  you 
so  !  I  persuaded  myself  I  was  safe  with  you — you  were 
so  generous.  You  would  protect  me  from  everything, 
even  my  own  past.  In  your  name  I  sent  it  away,  and 
would  not  think  of  it  again.  I  said  to  myself  you  would 
not  wish  me  to  tell  you  the  evil  that  had  befallen  me.  I 
persuaded  myself  you  loved  me  enough  even  for 
that.  I  held  my  peace  trusting  you.  Oh  my  hus- 
band !  my  Paul  !  my  heart  is  crushed.  The  dreadful 
thing  has  come  back.  I  thought  it  was  gone  from 
me,  and  now  it  will  not  leave  me  any  more.  I 
am  a  horror  to  myself.  There  is  no  one  to  punish 
and  forgive  me  but  you.  Forgive  me,  husband.  You 
are  the  God  to  whom  I  pray.  If  you  pardon  me,  I  shall 
be  content  even  with  myself  I  shall  seek  no  other 
pardon  ;  your  favour  is  all  I  care  for.  If  you  take  me 
for  clean,  I  am  clean  to  all  the  world.  You  can  make 
me  clean— you  only.  Do  it,  Paul;  do  it,  husband. 
Make  me  clean  that  I  may  look  women  in  the  lace. 
Do,  Paul,  take  the  whip  and  strike  me.  I  long  for  my 
deserts  at  your  hand.     Do  comfort  me.     I  am  waiting  the 


rAUL  FABER'S  DR£SS/A'G-A'OOj\/.  317 

Sting  of  it,  Paul,  to  know  that  you  have  forgiven  me. 
If  I  should  cry  out,  it  will  be  for  gladness. — Oh, 
my  husband," — here  her  voice  rose  to  an  agony  of 
entreaty—"  I  was  but  a  girl— hardly  more  than  a  child  in 
knowledge — I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing.  He  was 
much  older  that  I  was,  and  I  trusted  him  ! — O  my  God  ! 
I  hardly  know  what  I  knew  and  what  I  did  not  know  :  it 
was  only  when  it  was  too  late  that  I  woke  and  understood. 
I  hate  myself.  I  scorn  myself.  But  am  I  to  be  wretched 
for  ever  because  of  that  one  fault,  Paul  ? — to  lose  you, 
Paul  ?  Will  you  not  be  my  saviour  and  forgive  me  my 
sin  ?  Oh,  do  not  drive  me  mad.  I  am  only  clinging 
to  my  reason.  Whip  me,  and  I  shall  be  well.  Take  me 
again,  Paul.  I  will  not,  if  you  like,  even  fancy  myself 
your  wife  any  more.  I  will  be  your  slave.  You  shall  do 
with  me  whatever  you  will.  I  will  obey  you  to  the  very 
letter.     Oh  beat  me  and  let  me  go." 

She  sunk  prone  on  the  floor,  and  clasped  and  kissed 
his  feet. 

He  took  the  whip  from  her  hand. 

Of  course  a  man  cannot  strike  a  woman  !  He  may 
tread  her  in  the  mire  ;  he  may  clasp  her  and  then  scorn 
her ;  he  may  kiss  her  close,  and  then  dash  her  from  him 
into  a  dungheap,  but  he  must  not  strike  her — that  would 
be  unmanly  !  Oh,  grace  itself  is  the  rage  of  the  pitiful 
Othello  to  the  forbearance  of  many  a  self-contained,  cold- 
blooded, self  careful  slave,  that  thinks  himself  a  gentle- 
man !  Had  not  Faber  been  even  then  full  of  his  own 
precious  self,  had  he  yielded  to  her  prayer  or  to  his 
own  wrath,  how  many  hours  of  agony  would  have  been 
saved  them  both  ! — "What!  would  you  have  had  him 
really  strike  her?"  I  would  have  had  him  do  a/iy- 
ihiug  rather  than  choose  himself  and  reject  his  wife  : 
make  of  it  what  you  will.  Had  he  struck  once, 
had  he  seen  the  purple  streak  rise  in  the  snow,  that 
instant  his  pride-frozen  heart  would  have  melted  into  a 
torrent  of  grief;  he  would  have  flung  himself  on  the 
floor  beside  her,  and  in  an  agony  of  pity  over  her  and 


3i8  PAUL  FAB  Eli. 

«orror  at  his  own  sacrilege,  would  have  clasped  her 
to  his  bosom,  and  baptized  her  in  the  tears  of  remorse 
and  repentance  ;  iVom  that  moment  tliey  would  have 
lieen  married  indeed. 

AVhen  slie  felt  him  take  the  whip,  the  poor  lady's  heart 
gave  a  great  heave  of  hope  ;  then  her  flesh  quivered  with 
fear.  She  closed  her  teeth  hard,  to  welcome  the  blow 
without  a  cry.  Would  he  give  her  many  stripes  ?  Then 
die  last  should  be  welcome  as  the  first.  \Vould  it  spoil 
her  skin?  What  matter,  if  it  was  his  own  hand  that  did 
it  ! 

A  brief  delay — long  to  her  !  then  the  hiss,  as  it 
seemed,  of  the  coming  blow  !  But  instead  of  the  pang 
she  awaited,  the  sharp  ring  of  breaking  glass  followed  : 
he  had  thrown  the  whip  through  the  window  into  the 
garden.  The  same  moment  he  dragged  his  feet  rudely 
from  her  embrace,  and  left  the  room.  The  devil  and 
the  gentleman  had  conquered.  He  had  spared  her,  not 
in  love,  but  in  scorn.  She  gave  one  great  cry  of  utter 
loss,  and  lay  senseless. 


CHArTER   XXXIV. 


THE     ];OTTO]\ILESS     POOL. 


^^;||^^  HE  came  to  herself  in  the  gray  dawn.  She 
was  cold  as  ice — cold  to  the  very  heart, 
but  she  did  not  feel  the  cold  :  there  was 
nothing  in  her  to  compare  it  against; 
her  very  being  was  frozen.  The  man  who 
had  given  her  life  had  thrown  her  from 
him.  He  cared  less  for  her  than  for  the  tortured 
dog.  She  was  an  outcast,  defiled  and  miserable.  Alas  ! 
alas !  this  was  what  came  of  speaking  the  truth — 
of  making  confession  !  The  cruel  scripture  had  Avrought 
its  own  fulfilment,  made  a  mock  of  her,  and  ruined 
her  husband's  peace.  She  knew  poor  Paul  would  never 
be  himself  again  !  She  had  carried  the  snake  so  long 
harmless  in  her  bosom  only  to  let  it  at  last  creep  from  her 
lips  into  her  husband's  ear,  sting  the  vital  core  of  her 
universe,  and  blast  it  for  ever !  How  foolish  she  had 
been! — What  was  left  her  to  do?  What  would  her 
husband  have  her  do  ?  Oh  misery  !  he  cared  no  more 
what  she  did  or  did  not  do.  She  was  alone— utterly 
alone  .     But  she  need  not  live. 

Dimly,  vaguely,  the  vapour  of  such  thoughts  as  these 
passed  through  her  desi)airing  soul,  as  she  lilted  herself 
from  the  floor  and  tottered  back  to  her  room.  Yet  even 
then,  in  the  very  midst  of  her  freezing  misery,  there  was, 


320  PAUL  FABER. 

although  she  had  not  yet  begun  to  recognize  it,  a  nascent 
comfort  in  that  she  had  spoken  and  confessed.  She 
would  not  really  have  taken  back  her  confession.  And 
although  the  torture  Avas  greater,  yet  was  it  more  endur- 
able than  that  she  had  been  suffering  before.  She  had 
told  him  who  had  a  right  to  know. — But,  alas  !  what  a 
deception  was  that  dream  of  the  trumpet  and  the  voice  ! 
A  poor  trick  to  entrap  a  helpless  sinner! 

Slowly,  with  numbed  fingers  and  trembling  hands,  she 
dressed  herself :  that  bed  she  would  lie  in  no  more,  for 
she  had  wronged  her  husband.  AV'hether  before  or  after 
he  was  her  husband,  mattered  nothing.  To  have  ever 
called  him  husband  was  the  wrong.  She  had  seemed 
that  she  Avas  not,  else  he  would  never  have  loved  or 
sought  her;  she  had  outraged  his  dignity,  defiled  him; 
he  had  cast  her  off,  and  she  could  not,  would  not  blame 
him.  Happily  for  her  endurance  of  her  misery,  she  did 
not  turn  upon  her  idol  and  cast  him  from  his  pedestal ; 
she  did  not  fix  her  gaze  upon  his  failure  instead  of  her 
own ;  she  did  not  espy  the  contemptible  in  his  conduct, 
and  revolt  from  her  allegiance. 

But  was  such  a  man  then  altogether  the  ideal  of  a 
woman's  soul?  Was  he  a  fit  champion  of  humanity  who 
would  aid  only  within  the  limits  of  his  pride?  who,  when 
a  despairing  creature  cried  in  soul-agony  for  help,  thought 
first  and  only  of  his  own  honour?  The  notion  men 
call  their  honour  is  the  shadow  of  righteousness,  the 
shape  that  is  where  the  light  is  not,  the  devil  that  dresses 
as  nearly  in  angel-fashion  as  he  can,  but  is  none  the  less 
for  that  a  sneak  and  a  coward. 

She  put  on  her  cloak  and  bonnet :  the  house  was  his, 
not  hers.  He  and  she  had  never  been  one  :  she  must  go 
and  meet  her  fate.  There  was  one  power,  at  least,  the 
key  to  the  great  door  of  liberty,  which  the  weakest  as  well  as 
the  strongest  possessed :  she  could  die.  Ah,  how  welcome 
would  Death  be  now  !  Did  he  ever  know  or  heed  the  right 
time  to  come,  without  being  sent  for — without  being  com- 
pelled ?    In  the  meantime  her  only  anxiety  was  to  get  out 


THE  BOTTOMLESS  TOOL.  321 

of  the  house  :  away  from  Paul  she  would  understand 
more  precisely  what  she  had  to  do.  With  the  feeling  ot 
his  angry  presence,  she  could  not  think.  Yet  how  she 
loved  him — strong  in  his  virtue  and  indignation !  She 
had  not  yet  begun  to  pity  herself,  or  to  allow  to  her  heart 
that  he  was  hard  upon  her. 

She  was  leaving  the  room  when  a  glitter  on  her  hand 
caught  her  eye  :  the  old  diamond  disc,  which  he  had 
bought  of  her  in  her  trouble,  and  restored  to  her  on  her 
wedding  day,  was  answering  the  herald  of  the  sunrise. 
Slie  drew  it  off :  he  must  have  it  again.  With  it  she  drew 
oft"  also  her  wedding  ring.  Together  she  laid  them  on 
the  dressing-table,  turned  again,  and  with  noiseless  foot 
and  desert  heart  went  through  the  house,  opened  the 
door,  and  stole  into  the  street.  A  thin  mist  was  waiting 
for  her.  A  lean  cat,  gray  as  the  mist,  stood  on  the  steps 
of  the  door  opposite.  No  other  living  thing  was  to  be 
seen.  The  air  was  chill.  The  autumn  rains  were  at 
hand.     But  her  heart  was  the  only  desolation. 

Already  she  knew  where  she  was  going.  In  the  street 
she  turned  to  the  left. 

Shortly  before,  she  had  gone  with  Dorothy,  for  the 
first  time,  to  see  the  Old  House,  and  there  had  had 
rather  a  narrow  escape.  Walking  down  the  garden  they 
came  to  the  pond  or  small  lake,  so  well  known  to  the 
children  of  Glaston  as  bottomless.  Two  stone  steps  led 
from  the  end  of  the  principal  walk  down  to  the  water, 
which  was,  at  the  time,  nearly  level  with  the  top  of  the 
second.  On  the  upper  step  Juliet  was  standing,  not 
without  fear,  gazing  into  the  gulf,  which  was  yet  far 
deeper  than  she  imagined,  when,  without  the  smallest  pre- 
indication,  the  lower  step  suddenly  sank.  Juliet  sprung 
back  to  the  walk,  but  turned  instantly  to  look  again. 
She  saw  the  stone  sinking,  and  her  eyes  opened  wider 
and  wider,  as  it  swelled  and  thinned  to  a  great,  dull, 
wavering  mass,  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer,  then  melted 
away  and  vanished  utterly.     With  "  stricken  look,"  and 

Y 


322  PAUL  FABER. 

friglit-fiUed  eyes,  she  turned  to  Dorothy,  who  was  a  little 
behuid  her,  and  said, 

"How  will  you  be  able  to  sleep  at  night?  _  I  should 
be  al-.vays  fancying  myself  sliding  down  into  it  through 
the  darkness." 

To  this  place  of  terror  she  was  now  on  the  road.  When 
consciousness  returned  to  her  as  she  lay  on  the  floor  ot 
her  husband's  dressing-room,  it  brought  with  it  first  the 
awful  pool  and  the  sinking  stone.  She  seemed  to  stand 
watching  it  sink,  lazily  settling  with  a  swing  this  way  and 
a  sway  that,  into  the  Ijosom  of  the  earth,  down  and  down, 
and  still  down.  Nor  did  the  vision  leave  her  as  she 
came  more  to  herself  Even  when  her  mental  eyes  were 
at  length  quite  open  to  the  far  more  frightful  verities  of 
her  condition,  half  of  her  consciousness  was  still  watch- 
ing the  ever  sinking  stone ;  until  at  last  she  seemed  to 
understand  that  it  was  showing  her  a  door  out  of  her 
misery,  one  easy  to  open. 

She  went  the  same  way  into  the  park  that  Dorothy 
had  then  taken  her — through  a  little  door  of  privilege 
which  she  had  shown  her  how  to  open,  and  not  by  the 
lodge.  The  light  was  growing  fast,  but  the  sun  was  not 
yet  up.  With  feeble  steps  but  feverous  haste  she  hurried 
over  the  grass.  Her  feet  were  wet  through  her  thin 
shoes.  Her  dress  was  fringed  with  dew.  But  there  was 
no  need  for  taking  care  of  herself  now;  she  felt  herself 
already  beyond  the  reach  of  sickness.  The  slill  pond 
would  soon  wash  off  the  dew. 

Suddenly,  with  a  tremor  of  waking  hope,  came  the 
thought,  that,  when  she  was  gone  from  his  sight,  the 
heart  of  her  husband  would  perhaps  turn  again  towards 
her  a  litde.  For  would  he  not  then  be  avenged?  would 
not  his  justice  be  satisfied?  She  had  been  well  drilled 
in  the  theological  lie,  that  punishment  is  the  satisfaction 
of  justice. 

"  Oh,  now  I  thank  you,  Paul  !"  she  said,  as  she 
hastened  along.  "  You  taught  me  the  darkness,  and  made 
me  brave  to  seek  its  refuge.     Think  of  me  sometimes, 


THE  BOTTOMLESS  TOOL.  323 

Paul.  I  will  come  back  to  you  if  I  can — but  no,  there 
is  no  coming  back,  no  greeting  more,  no  shadows  even 
to  mingle  their  loves,  for  in  a  dream  there  is  but  one 
that  dreams.  I  shall  be  the  one  that  does  not  dream. 
There  is  nothing  where  I  am  going — not  even  the  dark- 
ness— nothing  but  nothing.  Ah,  would  I  were  in  it 
now  '  Let  me  make  haste.  All  will  be  one,  for  all  will 
be  none  when  I  am  there.  Make  you  haste  too,  and 
come  into  the  darkness,  Paul.  It  is  soothing  and  soft 
and  cool.     It  will  wash  away  the  sin  of  tlie  girl  and  leave 

you  a nothing." 

While  she  was  thus  hurrying  towards  the  awful  pool,  her 
husband  sat  in  his  study,  sunk  in  a  cold  fury  of  conscious 
disgrace — not  because  of  his  cruelty,  not  because  he  had 
cast  a  woman  into  hell — but  because  his  honour,  his 
self-satisfaction  in  his  own  fate,  was  thrown  to  the  worms. 
Did  he  fail  thus  in  consequence  of  having  rejected  the 
common  belief?  No  ;  something  far  above  the  coiiunon 
behef  it  must  be,  that  would  have  enabled  him  to 
act  otherwise.  But  had  he  kiioton  the  man  of  the 
gospel,  he  could  not  have  left  her.  He  would  have 
taken  her  to  his  sorrowful  bosom,  wept  with  her,  for- 
gotten himself  in  pitiful  grief  over  the  spot  upon  her 
whiteness  ;  he  would  have  washed  her  clean  with  love 
and  husband-power.  He  would  have  welcomed  his 
shame  as  his  hold  of  her  burden,  whereby  to  lift  it,  with 
all  its  misery  and  loss,  from  her  heart  for  ever.  Had 
Faber  done  so  as  he  was,  he  would  have  come  close  up  to 
ilie  gate  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  for  he  would  have 
been  like-minded  with  him  w^ho  sought  not  his  own. 
His  honour,  forsooth  !  Pride  is  a  mighty  honour  !  liis 
pride  was  great  indeed,  but  it  was  not  grand  !  Nothing 
reflected,  nothing  whose  object  is  self,  has  in  it  the 
poorest  element  of  grandeur.  Our  selves  are  ours  that 
w-e  may  lay  them  on  the  altar  of  love.  Lying  there, 
bound  and  bleeding  and  burning  if  need  be,  they  are 
grand  indeed — for  they  are  in  their  noble  place,  and 
rejoicing  in  their  fate.  But  this  man  w;\s  miserable, 
Y  2 


324  PAUL  FABER. 

because,  the  possessor  of  a  priceless  jewel,  he  had  found 
it  was  not  such  as  would  pass  for  flawless  in  the  judgment 
of  men — ^judges  themselves  unjust,  whose  very  hearts 
were  full  of  bribes.  He  sat  there  an  injured  husband,  a 
wronged,  woman-cheated,  mocked  man — he  in  whose 
eyes  even  a  smutch  on  her  face  would  have  lowered  a 
woman — who  would  not  have  listened  to  an  angel  with 
a  broken  wing-feather  ! 

Let  me  not  be  supposed  to  make  little  of  Juliet's  loss! 
What  that  amounted  to,  let  Juliet  herself  feel ! — let  any 
woman  say,  who  loves  a  man,  and  would  be  what  that 
man  thinks  her !  But  I  read,  and  think  I  understand, 
the  words  of  the  perfect  Purity  :  "  Neither  do  I  con- 
demn thee  :  go  and  sin  no  more." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


i'F  people  were  both  observant  and  memo- 
rious,  they  would  cease,  I  foncy,  to  be 
astonished  at  coincidences.  Riglitly  re- 
garded, the  universe  is  but  one  coincidence 
— only  where  will  has  to  be  developed, 
there  is  need  for  human  play,  and  room 
for  that  must  be  provided  in  its  spaces.  The  works  of 
God  being  from  the  beginning,  and  all  his  beginnings 
invisible  cither  from  greatness  or  smallness  or  nearness  or 
remoteness,  numberless  coincidences  may  pass  in  every 
man's  history,  before  he  becomes  capable  of  knowingeither 
the  need  or  the  good  of  them,  or  even  of  noting  them. 

The  same  morning  there  was  another  awake  and  up 
early.  When  Juliet  was  about  half-way  across  the  park, 
hurrying  to  the  water,  Dorothy  was  opening  the  door  of 
the  empty  house,  seeking  solitude  that  she  might  find  the 
one  dweller  therein.  She  went  straight  to  one  of  the 
upper  rooms  looking  out  upon  the  garden,  and  kneeling 
prayed  to  her  Unknown  God.  As  she  knelt,  the  first  rays 
of  the  sunrise  visited  her  face.  That  face  was  in  itself 
such  an  embodied  prayer,  that  had  any  one  seen  it,  he 
might,  when  the  beams  fell  upon  it,  have  imagined  he 
saw  prayer  and  answer  meet.  It  was  another  sunrise 
Dorothy  was  4ooking  for,  but  she  started  and  smiled  when 


3-6  PAUL  FABER. 

the  warm  rays  touched  her :  they  too  came  from  the 
home  of  answers.  As  the  daisy  mimics  the  sun,  so  is  the 
central  fire  of  our  system  but  a  flower  that  blossoms  in 
the  eternal  eftulgence  of  the  unapproachable  light. 

The  God  to  whom  we  pray  is  nearer  to  us  than  the 
very  prayer  itself  ere  it  leaves  the  heart;  hence  his 
answers  may  well  come  to  us  through  the  channel  of  our 
own  thoughts.  But  the  world  too  being  itself  one  of  his 
thoughts,  he  may  also  well  make  the  least  likely  of  his 
creatures  an  angel  of  his  will  to  us.  Even  the  blind,  if 
God  be  with  him,  that  is,  if  he  knows  he  is  blind  and 
does  not  think  he  sees,  may  become  a  leader  of  the  blind 
up  to  the  narrov/  gate.  It  is  the  blind  who  sa3's  /  see, 
that  leads  his  fellow  into  the  ditch. 

The  window  near  which  Dorothy  kneeled,  and  towards 
which  in  the  instinct  for  light  she  had  turned  her  face, 
looked  straight  down  the  garden,  at  the  foot  of  which  the 
greater  part  of  the  circumference  of  the  pond  was  visible. 
But  Dorothy,  busy  with  her  prayers,  or  rather  with  a 
weight  of  hunger  and  thirst,  from  v\'hich,  like  a  burst  ot 
lightning  skyward  from  the  overcharged  earth,  a  prayer 
would  now  and  then  break  and  rush  heavenward,  saw 
nothing  of  the  outer  world  :  between  her  and  a  sister 
soul  in  mortal  agony,  hung  the  curtains  of  her  eyelids. 
But  there  were  no  shutters  to  her  ears,  and  in  at  their 
portals  all  of  a  sudden  darted  a  great  and  bitter  cry,  as 
from  a  heart  in  the  gripe  of  a  fierce  terror.  She  had  been 
so  absorbed,  and  it  so  startled  and  shook  her,  that  she 
never  could  feel  certain  whether  the  cry  she  had  heard 
was  of  this  world  or  not.  Half-asleep  one  hears  such  a 
cry,  and  cannot  tell  whether  it  entered  his  consciousness 
by  tiie  ears  or  through  some  hidden  channel  of  the  soul. 
Assured  that  waking  ears  heard  nothing,  he  remains,  it 
may  be,  in  equal  doubt,  whether  it  came  from  the  other 
side  of  life  or  was  the  mere  cry  of  a  dream.  Before 
Dorothy  was  aware  of  a  movement  of  her  will,  she  was  on 
her  feet,  and  staring  from  the  window.  Something  was 
lying  on  the  grass  beyond  the  garden  walj,  close  to  the 


A  HEART.  327 

pond  :  it  looked  like  a  woman.  She  darted  from  the  house, 
out  of  the  garden,  and  down  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 
"When  she  came  nearer,  she  saw  it  was  indeed  a  woman,  evi- 
dently insensible.  She  was  bare-headed.  Her  bonnet  was 
floating  on  the  pond  ;  the  wind  had  blown  it  almost  to 
the  middle  of  it.  Her  face  was  turned  towards  the 
water.  One  hand  was  in  it.  The  bank  overhung  the 
pond,  and  with  a  single  movement  more  she  would  pro- 
bably have  been  beyond  help  from  Dorothy.  She  caught 
her  by  the  arm,  and  dragged  her  from  the  brink,  before 
ever  she  looked  in  her  face.  Then  to  her  amazement 
she  saw  it  was  Juliet.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and  it  was 
as  if  a  lost  soul  looked  out  of  them  upon  Dorothy — a 
being  to  whom  the  world  was  nothing,  so  occupied  was  it 
Avith  some  torment  which  alone  measured  its  existence — 
far  away,  although  it  hung  attached  to  the  world  by  a 
single  hook  of  brain  and  nerve. 

"Juliet,  my  darling!"  said  Dorothy,  her  voice  trembling 
with  the  love  which  only  souls  that  know  trouble  can  feel 
for  the  troubled,  '*  come  with  me.   I  will  take  care  of  you." 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Juliet  shuddered.  Then 
a  better  light  caiiie  into  her  eyes,  and  feebly  she  en- 
deavoured to  get  up.  ^Vith  Dorothy's  help  she  suc- 
ceeded, but  stood  as  if  ready  to  sink  again  to  the  earth. 
She  drew  her  cloak  about  her,  turned  and  stared  at  the 
water,  turned  again  and  stared  at  Dorothy,  at  last  threw 
herself  into  her  arms,  and  sobbed  and  wailed.  For  a  few 
moments  Dorothy  held  her  in  a  close  embrace.  Then 
she  sought  to  lead  her  to  the  house,  and  Juliet  yielded  at 
once.  She  took  her  into  one  of  the  lower  rooms,  and 
got  her  some  water — it  was  all  she  could  get  for  her,  and 
made  her  sit  down  on  the  window-seat.  It  seemed  a 
measureless  time  before  she  made  the  least  attempt  to 
speak  ;  and  again  and  again  when  she  began  to  try,  she 
failed.  She  opened  her  mouth,  but  no  sounds  would 
come.  At  length,  interrupted  with  choking  gasps,  low 
cries  of  despair,  and  long  intervals  of  sobbing,  she  said 
somethiusf  like  this  : 


328  PAUL  FABKR. 

"  I  was  going  to  drown  myself.  When  I  came  in  sight 
of  the  water,  I  fell  down  in  a  half  kind  of  faint.  All  the 
time  I  lay,  I  felt  as  if  some  one  was  dragging  me  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  pool.  Then  something  came  and  drew 
me  back — and  it  was  you,  Dorothy.  But  you  ouglit  to  have 
left  me.  I  am  a  wretch.  There  is  no  room  for  me  in 
this  world  any  more."  She  stopped  a  moment,  then 
fixing  wide  eyes  on  Dorothy's,  said,  "  Oh  Dorothy,  dear  ! 
there  are  awful  things  in  the  world  !  as  awful  as  any  you 
ever  read  in  a  book  !" 

"  I  know  that,  dear.  But  oh  I  I  am  sorry  if  any  of 
them  have  come  your  way.  Tell  me  what  is  the  matter. 
I  ivill  help  you  if  I  can." 

'•  I  dare  not ;  I  dare  not !  I  should  go  raving  mad  if 
I  said  a  word  about  it." 

"  Then  don't  tell  me,  my  dear.  Come  with  me  up- 
stairs ;  there  is  a  warmer  room  there — full  of  sunshine  ; 
you  are  nearly  dead  with  cold.  I  came  here  this  morning, 
Juliet,  to  be  alone  and  pray  to  God  ;  and  see  what  he 
has  sent  me !  You,  dear  !  Come  upstairs.  Why,  you 
are  quite  wet !     You  will  get  your  death  of  cold !" 

"  Then  it  would  be  all  right.  I  would  rather  not  kill 
myself  if  I  could  die  without.  lUit  it  must  be  some- 
how." 

"  We'll  talk  about  it  afterwards.     Come  now." 

^\^ith  Dorothy's  arm  round  her  waist,  Juliet  climbed 
trembling  to  the  warmer  room.  On  a  rickety  wooden  chair, 
Dorothy  made  her  sit  in  the  sunsliine,  while  she  went  and 
gathered  chips  and  shavings  and  Ints  of  wood  left  by  the 
workmen.  With  these  she  soon  kindled  a  fire  in  the  rusty 
grate.  Then  she  took  off  Juliet's  shoes  and  stockings,  and 
put  her  own  upon  her.  She  made  no  resistance,  only  her 
eyes  followed  Dorothy's  bare  feet  going  to  and  fro,  as  if 
she  felt  something  was  wrong,  and  had  not  strength  to 
inquire  into  it. 

J]ut  Dorothy's  heart  rebuked  her  for  its  own  liL;htness. 
It  had  not  been  so  light  for  many  a  day.  It  seemed  as 
if  God  was  letting  her  know  that   he  was  there.     She 


A  HEART.  329 

spread  her  cloak  on  a  sunny  s])ot  of  the  floor,  made 
JuUet  He  down  upon  it,  ]mt  a  bundle  of  shavings  under 
her  head,  covered  her  with  her  own  cloak,  wliich  she  had 
dried  at  the  fire,  and  was  leaving  the  room. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Dorothy  ?"  cried  Juliet,  seeming 
all  at  once  to  wake  up. 

"  I  am  going  to  fetch  your  husband,  dear,"  answered 
Dorothy. 

She  gave  a  great  cry,  rose  to  her  knees,  and  clasped 
Dorothy  round  hers. 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  she  screamed.  "  You  shall  not.  If  you 
do,  I  swear  I  will  run  straight  to  the  pond."_ 

Notwithstanding  the  wildness  of  her  voice  and  look, 
there  was  an  evident  determination  in  both. 

"  I  will  do  nothing  you  don't  like,  dear,"  said 
Dorothy.  "  I  thought  that  was  the  best  thing  I  could 
do  for  you." 

"  No !  no  !  no  !     Anything  but  that !" 

"  Then  of  course  I  won't.  But  I  must  go  and  get  you 
something  to  eat." 

"I  could  not  swallow  a  mouthful;  it  would  choke 
me.  And  where  would  be  the  good  of  it,  when  life  is 
over !" 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  dear.  Life  can't  be  over  till  it 
is  taken  from  us." 

"  Ah,  you  would  see  it  just  as  I  do,  if  you  knew  all !" 

"  Tell  me  all,  then." 

"  Where  is  the  use,  when  there  is  no  help?" 

"  No  help  !"  echoed  Dorothy. — The  words  she  liad  so 
often  uttered  in  her  own  heart,  coming  from  the  lips  of 
another  carried  in  them  an  incredible  contradiction. — 
Could  God  make  or  the  world  breed  the  irreparable  ? — ■ 
"  Juliet,"  she  went  on,  after  a  litUe  pause,  "  I  have  often 
said  the  same  myself,  but " 

"  You !"  interrupted  Juliet ;  "  you  who  always  professed 
to  believe  !" 

Dorothy's  ear  could  not  distinguish  whether  the  tone 
was  of  indignation  or  of  bitterness. 


330  PAUL  FADER. 

"  You  never  heard  me,  Juliet,'"'  she  answered,  '*  profess 
anything.  If  my  surroundings  did  so  for  me,  I  could  not 
help  that.  I  never  dared  say  I  believed  anything.  But 
I  hope — and,  perhaps,"  she  went  on  with  a  smile,  "seeing 
Hope  is  own  sister  to  Faith,  she  may  bring  me  to  know 
her  too  some  day.     Paul  says " 

Dorothy  had  been  brought  up  a  dissenter,  and  never 
said  St.  this  one  or  that,  any  more  than  the  Christians  of 
the  New  Testament. 

At  the  sound  of  the  name,  Juliet  burst  into  tears, 
the  first  she  shed,  for  the  word  Paul,  like  the  head  of 
the  javelin  torn  from  the  wound,  brought  the  whole 
fountain  after  it.  She  cast  herself  down  again,  and  lay 
and  wept.  Dorothy  knelt  beside  lier,  and  laid  a  hand 
on  her  shoulder.  It  was  the  only  way  she  could  reach 
her  at  all. 

"  You  see,"  she  said  at  last,  for  the  weeping  went  on 
and  on,  "  there  is  nothing  will  do  you  any  good  but  your 
husband." 

''  No,  no ;  he  has  cast  me  from  him  for  ever  !"  she  cried, 
in  a  strange  wail  that  rose  to  a  shriek. 

"  The  wretch !"  exclaimed  Dorothy,  clenching  a  fist 
v/hose  little  bones  looked  fierce  through  the  whitened 
skin. 

"  No,"  returned  Juliet,  suddenly  calmed,  in  a  voice 
almost  severe ;  "  it  is  I  who  am  the  wretch,  to  give  you  a 
moment  in  which  to  blame  him. — He  has  done  nothing 
but  what  is  right." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  I  deserved  it." 

"  I  am  sure  you  did  not.  I  would  believe  a  thousand 
things  against  him  before  I  would  believe  one  against 
you,  my  poor  white  queen  !"  cried  Dorothy,  kissing  her 
hand. 

She  snatched  it  away,  and  covered  her  face  witli  bolli 
hands. 

"  I  should  only  need  to  tell  you  one  thing  to  convince 
you,"  she  sobbed  from  behind  them. 


A  HEART.  331 

"Then  tell  it  mc,  that  I  may  not  be  unjust  to  him." 
"  I  cannot." 

"  I  won't  take  your  word  against  yourself,'  returned 
Dorothy  determinedly.  "  You  will  have  to  tell  me,  or 
leave  me  to  think  the  worst  of  him."  She  was  moved 
by  no  vulgar  curiosity:  how  is  one  to  help  without 
knowimj?  "Tell  me,  my  dear,"  she  went  on  afler  a 
little  ;  ''  tell  me  all  about  it,  and  in  the  name  of  the  God 
in  whom  I  hope  to  believe,  I  promise  to  give  myself  to 
your  service." 

Thus  adjured,  Juliet  found  herself  compeUed.  Lut 
with  what  heart-tearing  groans  and  sobs,  with  what 
intervals  of  dumbness,  in  which  the  truth  seemed  un- 
utterable for  despair  and  shame,  followed  by  what 
hurryings  of  wild  confession,  as  if  she  would  cast  it  from 
her,  the  sad  tale  found  its  way  into  Dorothy's  aching 
heart,  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe.  It  is  enough  that 
at  Last  it  was  told,  and  that  it  had  entered  at  the  wide- 
open  eternal  doors  of  sympathy.  If  Juliet  had  lost  a 
husband,  she  had  gained  a  friend,  and  that  was  some- 
thing—indeed no  little  thing— for  in  her  kind  the  friend 
was 'more  complete  than  the  husband.  She  was  truer 
more  entire— in  friendship  nearly  perfect.  When  a  tinal 
burst  of  tears  had  ended  the  story  of  loss  and  despair,  a 
silence  fell.  .  .        . 

"  Oh,  those  men  !  those  men  !"  said  Dorothy,  m  a  low 
voice  of  bitterness,  as  if  she  knew  them  and  their  ways 
well  though  never  had  kiss  of  man  save  her  father 
hghted  on  her  cheek.  "  —My  poor  darling  !"  she  said 
after  another  pause,  "  —and  he  cast  you  from  him  !— I 
suppose  a  woman's  heart,"  she  went  on  after  a^  third 
pause,  "can  never  make  up  for  the  loss  of  a  mans,  out 
here  is  mine  for  you  to  go  into  the  very  middle  of,  and 
lie  down  there."  . 

Juliet  had,  as  she  told  her  story,  risen  to  her  knees. 
Dorothy  was  on  hers  too,  and  as  she  spoke  she  opened 
wide  her  arms,  and  clasped  the  despised  wife  to  her 
bosom.     None   but   the   arms    of  her   husband,   Juliet 


332  PAUL  FABER. 

believed,  could  make  her  alive  with  forgiveness,  yet  she 
felt  a  strange  comfort  in  that  embrace.  It  wrought  upon 
her  as  if  she  had  heard  a  far-off  whisper  of  the  words  : 
Thy  sins  he  forgiven  thee.  And  no  wonder  :  there  was 
the  bosom  of  one  of  the  Lord's  clean  ones  for  her  to  rest 
upon  !  It  was  her  first  lesson  in  the  mighty  truth  that 
sin  of  all  things  is  mortal,  and  purity  alone  can  live  for 
evermore. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


TWO    MORE    MINDS. 


NOTHING  makes  a  man  strong  like  a  call 
upon  him  for  help — a  fact  which  points 
at  a  unity  more  delicate  and  close  and 
profound  than  heart  has  yet  perceived.  It  if 
but  "  a  modern  instance"  how  a  mother,  i) 
she  be  but  a  hen,  becomes  bold  as  a 
tigress  for  her  perilled  offspring.  A  stranger  will 
fight  for  the  stranger  who  puts  his  trust  in  him.  The 
most  foolish  of  men  will  search  his  musty  brain  to 
find  wise  saws  for  his  boy.  An  anxious  man,  going 
to  his  friend  to  borrow,  may  return  having  lent  him 
instead.  The  man  who  has  found  nothing  yet  in  the 
world  save  food  for  the  hard,  sharp,  clear  intellect,  will 
yet  cast  an  eye  around  the  universe  to  see  if  perchance 
there  may  not  be  a  God  somewhere  for  the  hungering 
heart  of  his  friend.  The  poor,  but  lovely,  the  doubting, 
yet  living  faith  of  Dorothy  arose,  stretched  out  its  crippled 
wings,  and  began  to  arrange  and  straighten  their  dis- 
ordered feathers.  It  is  a  fair  sight,  any  creature,  be  it 
but  a  fly,  dressing  its  wings  !  Dorothy's  were  feeble, 
ruffled,  their  pen-feathers  bent  and  a  liitle  crushed ;  but 
Juliet's  were  full  of  mud,  paralyzed  with  disuse,  and 
grievously  singed  in  the  smouldering  fire  of  her  secret.  A 
butterfly  that  has  burnt  its  wings  is  not  very  unlike  a 
caterpillar  again. 


334  PAUL  FABER. 

"  Look  here,  Juliet,"  said  Doroth)' :  '•'  there  must  be 
some  way  out  of  it,  or  there  is  no  saving  God  in  the  uni- 
verse.— Now  don't  begin  to  say  there  isn't,  because,  you 
see,  it  is  your  only  chance.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  make 
a  fool  of  j^ourself  by  being  over-wise,  to  lose  everything  by 
taking  it  for  granted  there  is  no  God.  If  after  all  there 
should  be  one,  it  would  be  the  saddest  thing  to  perish  for 
v,-ant  of  him.  I  won't  say  I  am  as  miserable  as  you, 
for  I  haven't  a  husband  to  trample  on  my  heart ;  but  I 
am  miserable  enough,  and  want  dreadfully  to  be  saved. 
I  don't  call  this  a  life  worth  living.  Nothing  is  right, 
notiiing  goes  well — there  is  no  harmony  in  me.  I  don't 
call  it  life  at  all.  I  want  music  and  light  in  me.  I  want 
a  God  to  save  me  out  of  this  wretchedness.  I  want 
health." 

"I  thought  you  were  never  ill,  Dorothy,"  murmured 
Juliet  Hstlessly. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  do  not  know  what  I  mean  ?"  re- 
turned Dorothy.  "  Do  you  never  feel  wretched  and  sick 
in  your  very  soul? — disgusted  with  yourself,  and  longing 
to  be  lifted  up  out  of  yourself  into  a  region  of  higher 
conditions  altogether  ?" 

That  kind  of  thing  Juliet  had  been  learning  to 
attribute  to  the  state  of  her  health — had  partly  learned : 
it  is  hard  to  learn  anything  false  f/ioroi/g/ily,  for  it  cannot 
so  be  learned.  It  is  true  that  it  is  often,  perhaps  it  is 
generally,  in  troubled  health,  that  such  thoughts  come  first ; 
but  in  nature  there  are  facts  of  colour  that  the  cloudy 
day  reveals.  So  sure  am  I  that  many  things  whicli  illness 
has  led  me  to  see  are  true,  that  I  would  endlessly  rather 
never  be  well  than  lose  sight  of  them.  "  So  would  any 
madman  say  of  his  fixed  idea."  I  will  keep  my  machiess, 
then,  for  therein  most  do  I  desire  the  noble  ;  and  to  desire 
what  I  desire,  if  it  be  but  to  desire,  is  better  than  to  have 
all  you  offer  us  in  the  name  of  truth.  Through  such 
desire  and  the  hope  of  its  attainment,  all  greatest  things 
have  been  wrought  in  the  earth  :  I  too  have  my  unbelief 
as  well  as  you — I  cannot  believe  that  a  lie  on  the  belief 


TIVO  MOKE  MINDS.  335 

of  which  has  depended  our  l.'ghest  development.  Vou 
may  say  you  have  a  higher  to  bring  in.  ]Jut  tliat  higher 
you  have  become  capable  of  by  the  precedent  lie.  Yet 
you  vaunt  truth  !  You  would  sink  us  low  indeed,  making 
out  falsehood  our  best  nourishment — at  some  period  ot 
our  history  at  least.  If,  however,  what  I  call  true  and 
•liigh,  you  call  false  and  low — my  assertion  that  you  have 
never  seen  that  of  which  I  so  speak  will  not  help — then 
is  there  nothing  left  us  but  to  part,  each  go  his  own  road, 
and  wait  the  end  —which  according  to  my  expectation 
will  show  the  truth,  according  to  yours,  being  nothing, 
will  show  nothing. 

"  I  cannot  help  thinking,  if  we  could  only  get  up 
there,"  Dorothy  went  on,  " — I  mean  into  a  life  of  which 
I  can  at  least  dream — if  I  could  but  get  my  head  and 
heart  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  I  should  find  that 
everything  else  M'ould  conie  right.  I  believe  it  is  God 
himself  I  want — nothing  will  do  but  himself  in  me.  Mr. 
Wingfold  says  that  we  find  things  all  Avrong  about  us,  that 
they  keep  going  against  our  will  and  our  liking,  just  to 
drive  things  right  inside  us,  or  at  least  to  drive  us  where 
v/e  can  get  them  put  right ;  and  that,  as  soon  as  their 
work  is  done,  the  waves  will  lie  down  at  our  feet,  or  if 
not,  we  shall  at  least  walk  over  their  crests." 

"  It  sounds  very  nice,  and  would  comfort  anybody  that 
v.asn't  in  trouble,"  said  Juliet;  "but  you  wouldn't  care 
one  bit  for  it  all,  any  more  than  I  do,  if  }-ou  had  pain 
and  love  like  mine  pulling  at  your  heart." 

"  I  have  seen  a  mother  make  sad  faces  enougli  over 
the  baby  at  her  breast,"  said  Dorothy.  "  Love  and  pain 
seem  so  strangely  one  in  this  world,  the  wonder  is  how 
they  will  ever  get  parted.  What  God  mui^t  feel  like, 
with  this  world  hanging  on  to  him  with  all  its  pains  and- 
cries !" 

"  It's  his  own  fault,"  said  Juliet  bitterly.  "Why  did 
he  make  us — or  why  did  he  not  make  us  good  ?  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  where  was  the  use  of  making  me  !" 

"  Perhaps  not  much  yet/'  replied  Dorothy,  "  but  then 


336  PAUL  FADER. 

he  hasn't  made  you,  he  hasn't  done  with  you  yet.  He 
is  making  you  now,  and  you  don't  Hke  it." 

"  No,  I  don't — if  you  call  this  making.  AVhy  docs  he 
do  it?  He  could  have  avoided  all  the  trouble  by 
leaving  us  alone." 

"  I  put  something  like  the  same  questions  once  to 
Mr.  Wingfold,"  said  Dorothy;  "and  he  told  me  it 
was  impossible  to  show  any  one  the  truths  of  the 
kingdom  of  heaven :  he  must  learn  them  for  himself. 
'  I  can  do  little  more,'  he  said,  '  than  give  you  my  testi- 
mony that  it  seems  to  me  all  right.  If  God  has  not 
made  you  good,  he  has  made  you  with  the  feeling  that 
you  ought  to  be  good,  and  at  least  a  half-conviction 
that  to  him  you  ha\-e  to  go  for  help  to  become  good. 
When  you  are  good,  then  you  will  know  why  he  did 
not  make  you  good  at  first,  and  will  be  perfectly  satisfied 
with  the  reason,  because  you  will  find  it  good  and  just 
and  right— so  good  that  it  was  altogether  beyond  the 
imderstanding  of  one  who  was  not  good.  I  don't  think,'  he 
said,  '  you  will  ever  get  a  thoroughly  satisfactory  answer 
to  any  question  till  you  go  to  himself  for  it — and  then 
it  may  take  years  to  make  you  fit  to  receive,  that  is  to 
understand,  the  answer.' — O  Juliet !  sometimes  I  have 
felt  in  my  heart  as  if — I  am  afraid  to  say  it,  even  to 
you, " 

"/shan't  be  shocked  at  anything;  I  am  long  past 
that,"  sighed  Juliet. 

"  It  is  not  of  you  I  am  afraid,"  said  Dorothy.  "  It  is 
a  kind  of  awe  of  the  universe  I  feel.  But  God  is  the 
universe;  his  is  the  only  ear  that  will  hear  me;  and  he 
knows  my  thought  alread)^  Juliet,  I  feel  sometimes  as  if 
I  i/ii/st  be  good  for  God's  sake  ;  as  if  I  was  sorry  for  him, 
because  he  has  such  a  troublesome  nursery  of  children, 
that  will  not  or  cannot  understand  him,  and  will  not  do 
what  he  tells  them,  and  he  all  the  time  doing  the  very 
Dest  for  them  he  can." 

"  It  may  be  all  very  true,  or  all  great  nonsense,  Dorothy, 
Jcar ;  I  don't  care  a  bit  about  it.     All  I  care  for  is— I 


TIP'O  MORE  MINDS.  337 

don't  know  what  I  care  for — I  don't  care  for  anything 
any  more — tlierc  is  nothing  left  to  care  for.  I  love  my 
husband  with  a  heart  hke  to  break — oh  how  I  wish  it 
would !  He  hates  and  despises  me,  and  I  dare  not  wish 
that  he  wouldn't.  If  he  were  to  forgive  me  quite,  I 
should  yet  feel  that  he  ought  to  despise  me,  and  that 
would  be  all  the  same  as  if  he  did,  and  there  is  no  help. 
Oh,  how  horrid  I  look  to  him  !  I  can't  bear  it.  I 
fancied  it  was  all  gone  ;  but  there  it  is,  and  there  it 
must  be  for  ever.  I  don't  care  about  a  God.  If  there 
were  a  God,  what  would  he  be  to  me  without  my 
Paul  ?" 

"  I  think,  Juliet,  you  will  yet  come  to  say,  '  What 
would  my  Paul  be  to  me  without  my  God  !'  I  suspect 
we  have  no  more  idea  than  that  lonely  fly  on  the  window 
there,  what  it  would  be  /o  have  a  God." 

"  I  don't  care.  I  would  rather  go  to  hell  with  my 
Paul,  than  go  to  heaven  without  him,"  moaned  Juliet. 

"  But  what  if  God  should  be  the  only  where  to  find 
your  Paul?"  said  Dorothy.  "  What  if  the  gulf  that  parts 
you  is  just  the  gulf  of  a  God  not  believed  in — a 
universe  which  neither  of  you  can  cross  to  meet  the 
other,  just  because  you  do  not  believe  it  is  there  at  all  ?"' 

Juliet  made  no  answer — Dorothy  could  not  tell 
whether  from  feeling  or  from  indifference.  The  fact  was, 
the  words  conveyed  no  more  meaning  to  Juliet  than  they 
will  to  some  of  my  readers.  Why  do  I  write  them 
then?  Because  there  are  some  who  will  understand 
them  at  once,  and  others  who  will  grow  to  understand 
them.  Dorothy  was  astonished  to  find  herself  saying 
them.  The  demands  of  her  new  office  of  comforter 
gave  shape  to  many  half-formed  thoughts,  substance  to 
many  shadowy  perceptions,  something  like  music  to  not 
a  few  dim  feelings  moving  within  her;  but  what  she 
said  hardly  seemed  her  own  at  all. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Wingfold's  help,  Dorothy  might 
not  have  learned  these  things  in  this  world  :  but  had  it  not 
been  for  Juliet,  they  would  have    taken  years  more  to 


338  PAUL  FABER. 

blossom  in  her  being,  and  so  become  her  own.  Her  faint 
hope  seemed  now  to  break  forth  suddenly  into  power. 
"Whether  or  not  she  was  saying  such  things  as  were 
within  the  scope  of  Juliet's  apprehension,  was  a  matter  of 
comparatively  little  moment.  As  she  lay  there  in  misery, 
rocking  herself  from  side  to  side  on  the  floor,  she  would 
have  taken  hold  of  nothing.  But  Love  is  the  first  com- 
forter, and  where  love  and  truth  speak,  the  love  will  be 
felt  where  the  truth  is  never  perceived.  Love  indeed  is 
the  highest  in  all  truth ;  and  the  pressure  of  a  hand,  a 
kiss,  the  caress  of  a  child,  will  do  more  to  save  some- 
times, than  the  wisest  argument,  even  rightly  understood. 
Love  alone  is  wisdom,  love  alone  is  power ;  and  where 
love  seems  to  fail,  it  is  Avhere  self  has  stepped  between 
and  dulled  the  potency  of  its  rays. 

Dorothy  thought  of  another  line  of  expostulation. 

"  JuHet,"  she  said,  "suppose  you  were  to  drown  your- 
self, and  your  husband  were  to  repent  ?" 

"  That  is  the  only  hope  left  me.  You  see  yourself  I 
have  no  choice." 

"You  have  no  pity,  it  seems  ;  for  what  then  would  be- 
come of  him  ?  What  if  he  should  come  to  himself  in  bitter 
sorrow,  in  wild  longing  for  your  forgiveness,  but  you  had 
taken  your  forgiveness  Avith  you,  Avhere  he  had  no  hope 
of  ever  finding  it  ?  Do  you  want  to  punish  him  ?  to  make 
him  as  miserable  as  yourself?  to  add  immeasurably  to 
the  wrong  you  have  done  him,  by  going  where  no  word, 
no  message,  no  letter  can  pass,  no  cry  can  cross?  No, 
Juliet — death  can  set  nothing  right.  But  if  there  be  a 
Ciod,  then  nothing  can  go  Avrong  but  he  can  set  it  right, 
and  set  it  right  better  than  it  was  before." 

"  He  could  not  make  it  better  than  it  was." 

"What  ! — is  that  your  ideal  of  love — a  love  that  fails  in 
the  first  trial  ?  If  he  could  not  better  that,  then  indeed 
he  were  no  God  worth  the  name." 

"Why  then  did  he  make  us  such — make  such  a  world 
as  is  always  going  wrong  ?" 

"Mr.  Wingfold  says  it  is  always  going  lighter  the  same 


TIVO  MORE  MINDS.  339 

time  it  is  going  wrong.  I  grant  he  would  have  had  no 
right  to  make  a  world  that  might  go  farther  wrong  than  he 
could  set  right  at  his  own  cost.  But  if  at  his  own  cost  he 
turn  its  ills  into  goods  ?  its  ugliness  into  favour  ?  Ah,  if 
it  should  be  so,  Juliet !  It  may  be  so.  I  do  not  know. 
I  have  not  found  him  yet.  Help  me  to  find  him.  Let  us 
seek  him  together.  If  you  find  him,  you  cannot  lose  your 
husband.  If  Love  is  lord  of  the  world,  love  must  yet 
be  lord  in  his  heart.  It  will  wake,  if  not  sooner,  yet 
when  the  bitterness  has  worn  itself  out,  as  Mr.  Wing- 
fold  says  all  evil  must,  because  its  heart  is  death  and  not 
life." 

"  I  don't  care  a  straw  for  life.  If  I  could  but  find  my 
husband,  I  would  gladly  die  for  ever  in  his  arms.  It  is 
not  true  that  the  soul  longs  for  immortality.  I  don't.  I 
long  only  for  love — for  forgiveness — for  my  husband." 

"But  would  you  die  so  long  as  there  was  the  poorest 
chance  of  regaining  your  place  in  his  heart  ?" 

"No.  Give  me  the  feeblest  chance  of  that,  and  I  will 
live.     I  could  live  for  ever  on  the  mere  hope  of  it." 

"  I  can't  give  you  any,  but  I  have  hope  of  it  in  my  own 
heart." 

Juliet  rose  on  her  elbow. 

"  But  I  am  disgraced  !"  she  said,  almost  indignantly. 
"  It   would   be   disgrace  to  him  to  take  me  again !     I 

remember  one  of  the  officers'  wives .  No,  no  !   he 

hates  and  despises  me.  Besides  I  could  never  look  one 
of  his  friends  in  the  face  again.  Everybody  will  say  I 
ran  away  with  some  one — or  that  he  sent  me  away  be- 
cause I  was  wicked.  You  all  had  a  prejudice  against  me 
from  the  very  first." 

"  Yes,  in  a  way,"  confessed  Dorothy.  "  It  always  seemed 
as  if  we  did  not  know  you  and  could  not  get  at  you,  as 
if  you  avoided  us — with  your  heart,  I  mean  ; — as  if  you 
had  resolved  we  should  not  know  you — as  if  you  had 
something  you  were  afraid  we  should  discover." 

"Ah,  there  it  was,  you  see!"  cried  Juliet.  "And 
now  the  hidden  thing  is  revealed  !    That  was  it :  I  never 


340  PAUL  FABER. 

could  get  rid  of  the  secret  that  was  gnawing  at  my  X\{t. 
Even  when  I  was  hardly  aware  of  it,  it  was  there.  Oh, 
if  I  had  only  been  ugly,  then  Paul  would  never  have 
thought  of  me  !" 

She  threw  herself  down  again  and  buried  her  face. 

"  Hide  me ;  hide  me,"  she  went  on,  lifting  to  Dorothy 
her  hands  clasped  in  an  agony,  while  her  face  continued 
turned  from  her.  "  Let  me  stay  here.  Let  me  die  in 
peace.     Nobody  would  ever  think  I  was  here." 

"  That  is  just  what  has  been  coming  and  going  in  my 
mind,"  answered  Dorothy.  "  It  is  a  strange  old  place  : 
you  might  l^e  here  for  months  and  nobody  know." 

"Oh!  wouldn't  you  mind  it?  I  shouldn't  live  long. 
I  couldn't,  you  know  !" 

"  I  will  be  your  very  sister,  if  you  will  let  me,"  replied 
Dorothy ;  "  only  then  you  must  do  what  I  tell  you — and 
begin  at  once  by  promising  not  to  leave  the  house  till  I 
come  back  to  you." 

As  she  spoke  she  rose. 

"  But  some  one  will  come,"  said  Juliet,  half-rising,  as 
if  she  would  run  after  her. 

"  No  one  will.  But  if  any  one  should — come  here, 
I  will  sliow  you  a  place  where  nobody  would  hnd  you." 

She  helped  her  to  rise,  and  led  her  from  the  room 
to  a  door  in  a  rather  dark  passage.  This  she  opened, 
and,  striking  a  light,  showed  an  ordinary  closet,  with 
pegs  for  hanging  garments  upon.  The  sides  of  it  were 
panelled,  and  in  one  of  them,  not  readily  distinguishable, 
was  another  door.  It  opened  into  a  room  lighted  only 
by  a  little  window  high  in  a  wall,  througli  whose  dusty, 
cobwebbed  panes,  crept  a  modicum  of  second-hand  light 
from  a  stair. 

"  There  !"  said  Dorothy.  "  If  you  should  hear  any 

sound  before  I  come  back,  run  in  here.  See  what  a 
bolt  there  is  to  the  door.  Mind  you  shut  both.  You 
can  close  that  shutter  over  the  window  too  if  you  like — 
only  nobody  can  look  in  at   it  without  getting  a  ladder. 


Tiro  MORE  I\1TNDS.  341 

and  there  isn't  one  about  the  place.     I  don't  beheve  any- 
one knows  of  this  room  but  myself." 

Juliet  was  too  miserable  to  be  frightened  at  the  look  of 
it — which  was  wretched  enough.  She  promised  not  to 
leave  the  house,  and  Dorothy  went.  Many  times  before 
she  returned  had  Juliet  fled  from  the  sounds  of  imagined 
approach,  and  taken  refuge  in  the  musty  dusk  of  the 
room  withdrawn.  ^Mien  at  last  Dorothy  came,  she  found 
her  in  it,  trembling. 

She  came,  bringing  a  basket  with  everything  needful  for 
breakfast.  She  had  not  told  her  father  anything  :  he 
was  too  simple,  she  said  to  herself,  to  keep  a  secret  with 
comfort ;  and  she  would  risk  anything  rather  than  dis- 
covery while  yet  she  did  not  clearly  know  what  ought  to 
be  done.  Her  version  of  the  excellent  French  proverb — 
Dans  le  doii/e,  abstieiis-toi — was.  When  you  are  not  sure, 
wait — which  goes  a  little  farther,  inasmuch  as  it  indicates 
expectation,  and  may  imply  faith.  With  difficulty  she  pre- 
vailed upon  her  to  take  some  tea,  and  a  little  bread  and 
butter,  feeding  her  like  a  child,  and  trying  to  comfort 
her  with  hope.  Juliet  sat  on  the  floor,  leaning  against 
the  wall,  the  very  picture  of  despair,  white  like  alabaster, 
rather  than  marble — with  a  bluish  whiteness.  Her  look 
was  of  one  utterly  lost. 

"We'll  let  the  fire  out  now,"  said  Dorothy;  "  for  the 
sun  is  shining  in  warm,  and  there  had  better  be  no  smoke. 
The  wood  is  rather  scarce  too.  I  will  get  you  some 
more,  and  here  are  matches  :  you  can  light  it  again 
when  you  please." 

She  then  made  her  a  bed  on  the  floor  with  a  quantity 
of  wood  shavings,  and  some  shawls  she  had  brought, 
and  when  she  had  lain  down  upon  it,  kneeled  beside  her, 
and  covering  her  face  w'ith  her  hands,  tried  to  pray.  But 
it  seemed  as  if  all  the  misery  of  humanity  was  laid 
upon  her,  and  God  would  not  speak  :  not  a  sound  would 
come  from  her  throat,  till  she  burst  into  tears  and  sobs. 
It  struck  a  strange  chord  in  the  soul  of  the  wife  to  hear 


342  PAUL  FABER. 

the  maiden  weeping  over  her.  But  it  was  no  pri\ate 
trouble,  it  was  the  great  need  common  to  all  men  that 
opened  the  fountain  of  her  tears.  It  was  hunger  after 
the  light  that  slays  the  darkness,  after  a  comfort  to  con- 
front every  woe,  a  life  to  lift  above  death,  an  antidote  to 
all  wrong.  It  was  one  of  the  groanings  of  the  spirit  that 
cannot  be  uttered  in  M-ords  articulate,  or  even  formed 
into  thoughts  defined.  But  Juliet  was  filled  only  with 
the  thought  of  herself  and  her  husband,  and  the  tears 
of  her  friend  but  bedewed  the  leaves  of  her  bitterness, 
did  not  reach  the  dry  roots  of  her  misery. 

Dorothy's  spirit  revived  when  she  found  herself  once 
more  alone  in  the  park  on  her  way  home  the  second  time. 
She  must  be  of  better  courage,  she  said  to  herself. 
Struggling  in  the  Slough  of  Despond,  she  had  come  upon 
one  worse  mired  than  she,  for  whose  sake  she  must 
search  yet  more  vigorously  after  the  hidden  stepping- 
stones — the  peaks  whose  bases  are  the  centre  of  the 
world. 

"  God  help  me !"  she  said  ever  and  anon  as  she  went, 
and  every  time  sJie  said  it,  she  quickened  her  pace  and 
ran. 

It  was  just  breakfast-time  wlicn  she  reached  the  house. 
Her  father  was  coming  down  the  stair. 

"  Would  you  mind,  father,"  she  said  as  they  sat,  *'  ix'"  I 
v\>re  to  make  a  room  at  the  Old  House  a  little  com- 
fortable ?" 

"  I  mind  nothing  you  please  to  do,  Dorothy,"  he  an- 
swered. "  But  you  must  not  become  a  recluse.  In  your 
search  for  God,  you  must  not  forsake  your  neighbour." 

"  If  only  I  could  find  my  neighbour !"  she  returned, 
with  a  rather  sad  smile.  "  I  shall  never  be  able  even  to 
look  for  him,  I  think,  till  I  have  found  one  nearer  first." 

"  You  have  surely  found  your  neighbour  when  you 
have  found  his  wounds,  and  your  hand  is  on  the  oil-flask," 
said  her  father,  who  knew  her  indefatigable  in  her  minis- 
trations. 


TJVO  MORE  MINDS.  343 

"  I  don't  feel  it  so,"  she  answered.  "  ^Vhcn  I  am 
doing  things  for  people,  my  arms  seem  to  be  miles 
long." 

As  soon  as  her  father  left  the  table,  she  got  her  basket 
again,  filled  it  from  the  larder  and  store-room,  laid  a  book 
or  two  on  the  top,  and  telling  Lisbeth  she  was  going  to  the 
Old  House  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  set  out  on  her  third 
journey  thitlier.  To  her  delight  she  found  Juliet  fast 
asleep.  She  sat  down,  rather  tired,  and  began  to  reflect. 
Her  great  fear  was  that  Juliet  would  fall  ill,  and  then  what 
was  to  be  done  ?  How  was  she  to  take  the  responsibility 
of  nursing  her  ?  But  she  remembered  how  the  Lord  had 
said  she  was  to  take  no  thought  for  the  morrow;  and 
therewith  she  began  to  understand  the  word.  She  saw 
that  one  cannot  do  anything  in  to-inorrow,  and  that  all 
care  which  cannot  be  put  into  the  work  of  to-day,  is 
taken  out  of  it.  One  thing  seemed  clear— that,  so  long 
as  it  v/as  Juliet's  desire  to  remain  concealed  from  her 
husband,  she  had  no  right  to  act  against  that  desire. 
Whether  Juliet  was  right  or  wrong,  a  sense  of  security 
was  for  the  present  absolutely  necessary  to  quiet  her 
mind.  It  seemed  therefore,  the  first  thing  she  had  to  do 
was  to  make  that  concealed  room  habitable  for  her.  It 
was  dreadful  to  think  of  her  being  there  alone  at  night, 
but  her  trouble  was  too  great  to  leave  much  room  for 
fear — and  anyhow  there  was  no  choice.  So  while  Juliet 
slept,  she  set  about  cleaning  it,  and  hard  work  she  found 
it.  Great  also  was  the  labour  afterwards,  when,  piece 
by  piece,  at  night  or  in  the  early  morning,  she  carried 
thither  everything  necessary  to  make  abode  in  it  clean 
and  warm  and  soft. 

The  labour  of  love  is  its  oavii  reward,  but  Dorothy 
received  much  more.  For,  in  the  fresh  impulse  and 
Ireedom  born  of  this  service,  she  soon  found,  not  only  that 
she  thought  better  and  more  clearly  on  the  points  that 
troubled  her,  but  that,  thus  spending  herself,  she  grow 
more  able  to. believe  there  must  be  one  whose   glory 


344  PAUL  FABER. 

is  perfect  ministration.  Also,  her  anxious  concentration 
of  thought  upon  the  usurping  thoughts  of  others,  with  its 
tendency  to  diseased  action  in  the  logical  powers,  was 
thereby  checked,  much  to  her  relief.  She  was  not  finding 
an  atom  of  what  is  called  proof ;  but  when  the  longing 
heart  finds  itself  able  to  hope  that  the  perfect  is  the  fact, 
that  the  tmth  is  alive,  that  the  lovely  is  rooted  in  eternal 
purpose,  it  can  go  on  without  such  proof  as  belongs  to  a 
lower  stratum  of  things,  and  cannot  be  had  in  these.  When 
we  rise  into  the  mountain  air,  we  require  no  other  testi- 
mony than  that  of  our  lungs  that  we  are  in  a  healthful 
atmosphere.  We  do  not  find  it  necessary  to  submit  it  to 
a  quantitative  analysis ;  we  are  content  that  we  breathe 
with  joy,  that  we  grow  in  strength,  become  lighter- 
hearted  and  better-tempered.  Truth  is  a  very  difterent 
thing  from  fact ;  it  is  the  loving  contact  of  the  soul  with 
spiritual  fact,  vital  and  potent.  It  does  its  work  in  the  soul 
independently  of  all  faculty  or  qualification  therefor  setting 
it  forth  or  defending  it.  Truth  in  the  inward  parts  is  a 
power,  not  an  opinion.  It  were  as  poor  a  matter  as  any 
held  by  those  who  deny  it,  if  it  had  not  its  vitality  in  itself, 
if  it  depended  upon  any  buttressing  of  other  and  lower 
material. 

How  should  it  be  otherwise  ?  If  God  be  so  near  as 
the  very  idea  of  him  necessitates,  what  other  availing 
proof  of  his  existence  can  there  be,  than  such  awareness 
as  must  come  of  the  developing  relation  between  him 
and  us?  The  most  satisfying  of  intellectual  proofs,  if 
such  were  to  be  had,  would  be  of  no  value.  God  would 
be  no  nearer  us  for  them  all.  They  would  bring  about 
no  blossoming  of  the  mighty  fact.  While  he  was  in  our 
very  souls,  thei'e  would  yet  lie  between  him  and  us  a  gulf 
of  misery,  of  no-knowledge. 

Peace  is  for  those  who  do  the  truth,  not  those  who  opine 
it.  The  true  man  troubled  by  intellectual  doubt,  is  so 
troubled  unto  further  health  and  growth.  Let  him  be  alive 
and  hopeful,  above  all  obedient,  and  he  will  be  able  to  wait 
for  the  deeper  content  which  must  follow  with  completer 


Tiro  MORE  MINDS.  345 

insight.  Men  may  say  such  a  man  but  deceives  him- 
self, that  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind  he  pleases  himself 
with  imagining  ;  but  this  is  at  least  worth  reflecting  upon — 
that  while  the  man  wlio  aspires  fears  he  may  be  deceiving 
himself,  it  is  the  man  who  does  not  aspire  who  asserts  that 
he  is.  One  day  the  former  may  be  sure,  and  the  latter 
may  cease  to  deny,  and  begin  to  doubt ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

THE     doctor's     study. 


AUL  FABER'S  condition,  as  he  sat  through 
the  rest  of  that  night  in  his  study,  was 
about  as  near  absohite  misery  as  a  man's 

fj  IW^^     could    well   be,  in    this    life,    I    imagine. 
^^\Xj^S     The     woman     he     had    been    watching 
through  the  first  part  of  it  as  his  essential 
bliss,  he  had  left  in  a  swoon,  lying  naked  on  the  floor, 
and  would  not  and  did  not  go  near  her  again.     How 
could  he?      Had    he   not    been   duped,   sold,   married 

to ? — That  way  madness  lay  !     His  pride  was  bitterly 

wounded.  Would  it  had  been  mortally !  but  pride  seems 
in  some  natures  to  thrive  upon  wounds,  as  in  others  does 
love.  Faber's  pride  grew  and  grew  as  he  sat  and 
brooded,  or,  rather,  was  brooded  upon. 

He,  Paul  Faber,  who  knew  his  own  worth,  his  truth,  his 
love,  his  devotion — he,  with  his  grand  ideas  of  woman 
and  purity  and  unity,  conscious  of  deserving  a  woman's 
best  regards — he,  whose  love  (to  speak  truly  his  unworded, 
\indcfined  impression  of  himself)  any  woman  might  be 
proud  to  call  hers — he  to  be  thus  deceived  !  to  have 
taken  to  his  bosom  one  who  had  before  taken  another  to 
hers,  and  thought  it  yet  good  enough  for  him  !  It  would 
not  bear  thinking  !  Indignation  and  bitterest  sense  of 
wrong  almost  crazed  him.     For  evermore  he  must  be  a 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STUDY.  347 

hypocrite,  going  about  with  the  knowledge  of  that  con- 
cerning himself  which  he  would  not  have  known  by 
otliens  !  This  was  how  the  woman,  whom  he  had  brought 
back  from  death  with  the  life  of  his  own  heart,  had  served 
him  !  Years  ago  she  had  sacrificed  her  bloom  to  some 
sneaking  wretch  who  flattered  a  God  with  prayers,  then 
enticed  and  bewitched  and  married  him  ! 

In  all  this  thinking  there  was  no  thought  but  for 
himself — not  one  for  the  woman  whose  agony  had 
been  patent  even  to  his  wrath-blinded  eyes.  In 
what  is  the  wretchedness  of  our  condition  more 
evident  than  in  this,  that  the  sense  of  wrong  always 
makes  us  unjust !  It  is  a  most  humbling  thouglit. 
God  help  us.  He  forgot  how  she  had  avoided  him, 
resisted  him,  refused  to  confess  the  love  which  his 
goodness,  his  importunities,  his  besieging  love  had  com- 
pelled in  her  heart.  It  was  true  she  ought  either  to 
have  refused  him  absolutely  and  left  him,  or  confessed 
and  left  the  matter  with  him  ;  but  he  ought  to  have  remem- 
bered for  another,  if  ever  he  had  known  it  for  himself, 
the  hardness  of  some  duties ;  and  what  duty  could  be 
more  torturing  to  a  delicate-minded  woman  than  either  of 
those — to  leave  the  man  she  loved  in  passionate  pain, 
sore-wounded  with  a  sense  of  undeserved  cruelty,  or  io 
give  him  the  strengtli  to  send  her  from  him  by  confessing 
to  liis  face  what  she  could  not  recall  in  the  solitude  of 
her  own  chamber  but  the  agony  would  break  out  wet 
on  her  forehead !  We  do  our  brother,  our  sister, 
grievous  wrong,  every  time  that,  in  our  selfish  justice, 
we  forget  the  excuse  that  mitigates  the  blame.  That 
God  never  does,  for  it  would  be  to  disregard  the  truth. 
As  he  will  never  admit  a  false  excuse,  so  will  he  never 
neglect  a  true  one.  It  may  be  he  makes  excuses  which 
the  sinner  dares  not  think  of  j  while  the  most  specious  of 
false  ones  shrivel  into  ashes  before  him.  A  man  is 
bound  to  think  of  all  just  excuse  for  his  offender,  for  less 
than  the  righteousness  of  God  will  not  serve  his  turn. 

I  would  not  have  my  reader  set  Faber  down  as  heart- 


348  PAUL  FABER. 

less.  His  life  showed  the  contrary.  But  his  pride  was 
roused  to  such  furious  self  assertion,  that  his  heart  lay 
beaten  down  under  the  sweep  of  its  cyclone.  Its  turn 
was  only  delayed.  The  heart  is  always  there,  and  rage 
is  not.  The  heart  is  a  constant,  even  when  most  inter- 
mittent force.  It  can  bide  its  time.  Nor  indeed  did  it 
now  lie  quite  still;  for  the  thought  of  that  white  self 
offered  sacrifice,  let  him  rave  as  he  would  against  the 
stage-trickery  of  the  scene,  haunted  him  so,  that  once 
and  again  he  had  to  rouse  an  evil  will  to  restrain  him 
from  rushing  to  clasp  her  to  his  bosom. 

Then  there  was  the  question :  why  now  had  she 
told  him  all — if  indeed  she  had  made  a  clean  breast 
of  it  ?  Was  it  from  love  to  him,  or  reviving  honesty  in 
herself?  From  neither,  he  said.  Superstition  alone  was 
at  the  root  of  it.  She  had  been  to  church,  and  the 
preaching  of  that  honest  idiotic  enthusiast,  Wingfold, 
had  terrified  her. — Alas  !  what  refiige  in  her  terror  had 
she  found  with  her  husband? 

Before  morning  he  had  made  up  his  mind  as  to 
the  course  he  would  pursue.  He  would  not  publish  his 
own  shame,  but  neither  would  he  leave  the  smallest 
doubt  in  her  mind  as  to  what  he  thought  of  her,  or  what 
he  felt  towards  her.  All  should  be  utterly  changed 
between  them.  He  would  behave  to  her  with  extreme, 
with  marked  politeness ;  he  would  pay  her  every  attention 
woman  could  claim,  but  her  friend,  her  husband,  he 
would  be  no  more.  His  thoughts  of  vengeance  took 
many  turns,  some  of  them  childish.  He  would  always  call 
her  Mrs.  Fahcr.  Never,  except  they  had  friends,  would 
he  sit  in  tlie  same  room  with  her.  To  avoid  scandal,  he 
would  dine  with  her,  if  he  could  not  help  being  at  home, 
but  when  he  rose  from  the  table,  it  would  be  to  go  to  his 
study.  If  he  happened  at  any  time  to  be  in  the  room 
with  her  when  she  rose  to  retire,  he  would  light  her 
candle,  carry  it  upstairs  for  her,  open  her  door,  make 
her  a  polite  bow,  and  leave  her.  Never  once  would  he 
cross  the  threshold  of  her  bedroom.     She  should  have 


THE  DOC  TOR'S  S  7  UD  Y.  349 

plenty  of  money;  the  purse  of  an  adventuress  was  a 
greedy  one,  but  he  would  do  his  best  to  fill  it,  nor  once 
reproach  her  with  extravagance — of  which  fault,  let  me 
remark,  she  had  never  yet  shown  a  sign.  He  would 
refuse  lier  nothing  she  asked  of  him — except  it  were  in 
any  way  himself.  As  soon  as  his  old  aunt  died,  he 
would  get  her  a  brougham,  but  never  would  he  sit  m 
it  by  her  side.  Such,  he  thought,  would  be  the 
vengeance  of  a  gentleman.  Thus  he  fumed  and  raved 
and  trifled,  in  an  agony  of  selfish  suffering — a  proud, 
injured  man;  and  all  the  time  the  object  of  his  vengeful 
indignation  was  lying  insensible  on  the  spot  where  she 
had  prayed  to  him,  her  loving  heart  motionless  within  a 
bosom  of  ice. 

In  the  morning  he  went  to  his  dressing-room,  had  his 
bath,  and  went  down  to  breakfast,  half-desiring  his  wife's 
appearance,  that  he  might  begin  his  course  of  vindictive 
torture.  He  could  not  eat,  and  was  just  rising  to  go 
out,  when  the  door  opened,  and  the  parlour-maid,  who 
served  also  as  Juliet's  attendant,  appeared. 
"  I  can't  find  mis'ess  nowhere,  sir,"  she  said, 
Faber  understood  at  once  that  she  had  left  him,  and  a 
terror,  neither  vague  nor  ill-founded,  possessed  itself  of 
him.  He  sprung  from  his  seat,  and  darted  up  the  stair 
to  her  room.  Little  more  than  a  glance  was  necessary 
to  assure  him  that  she  had  gone  deliberately,  intending  it 
should  be  for  ever.  The  diamond  ring  lay  on  lier  dress- 
ing-table, spending  itself  in  flashing  back  the  single  ray 
of  the  sun  that  seemed  to  have  stolen  between  the  curtams 
to  find  it ;  her  wedding  ring  lay  beside  it,  and  the  sparkle 
of  the  diamonds  stung  his  heart  like  a  demoniacal  laughter 
over  it,  the  more  horrible  that  it  was  so  silent  and  so 
lovely  :  it  was  but  three  days  since,  in  his  wife's  presence, 
he  had  been  justifying  suicide  with  every  argument  he 
could  bring  to  bear.  It  was  true  he  had  insisted  on  a 
proper  regard  to  circumstances,  and  especially  on  giving 
due  consideration  to  the  question,  whether  the  act  would 
hurt  others  more  than  it  would  relieve  the  person  con- 


3SO  PAUL  FABER. 

templating  it ;  but,  after  the  way  he  had  treated  her, 
there  could  be  no  doubt  how  JuHet,  if  she  thought  of 
it  at  all,  was  compelled  to  answer  it.  He  rushed  to  the 
stable,  saddled  Ruber,  and  galloped  wildly  away.  At 
the  end  of  the  street  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  a 
single  idea  to  guide  him.  She  was  lying  dead  some- 
where, but  whether  to  turn  east  or  west  or  north  or  south 
to  find  her,  he  had  not  the  slightest  notion.  His  condition 
was  horrible.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  was  ready  to  blow 
his  brains  out :  that,  if  the  orthodox  were  right,  was  his 
only  chance  for  overtaking  her.  What  a  laughing-stock 
he  would  then  be  to  them  all !  The  strangest,  wildest, 
maddest  thoughts  came  and  went  as  of  themselves,  and 
when  at  last  he  found  himself  seated  on  Ruber  in  the 
middle  of  the  street,  an  hour  seemed  to  have  passed.  It 
was  but  a  few  moments,  and  the  thought  that  roused  him 
was  :  could  she  have  betaken  herself  to  her  old  lodging 
at  Owlkirk  ?  It  was  not  likely ;  it  was  possible :  he 
would  ride  and  see. 

"  They  will  say  I  murdered  her,"  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  rode — so  little  did  he  expect  ever  to  see  her  again. 
"  I  don't  care.  They  may  prove  it  if  they  can,  and  hang 
me.  I  shall  make'no  defence.  It  will  be  but  a  fit  end  to 
the  farce  of  life." 

He  laughed  aloud,  struck  his  spurs  in  Ruber's  flanks, 
and  rode  wildly.  He  was  desperate.  He  knew  neither 
what  he  felt  nor  what  he  desired.  If  he  had  found  her  alive, 
he  would,  I  do  not  doubt,  have  behaved  to  her  cruell)\ 
His  life  had  fiillen  in  a  heap  about  him ;  he  was  ruined, 
and  she  had  done  it,  he  said,  he  thought,  he  believed. 
He  was  not  aware  how  much  of  his  misery  was  occasioned 
by  a  shrinking  dread  of  the  judgments  of  people  he 
despised.  Had  he  known  it,  he  would  have  been  yet  more 
miserable,  for  he  would  have  scorned  himself  for  it. 
There  is  so  much  in  us  that  is  beyond  our  reach  ! 

Before  arriving  at  Owlkirk,  he  made  up  his  mind 
that,  if  she  were  not  there,  he  would  ride  to  the 
town  of   Broughill — not   in   the  hope   of  any  news  of 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STUDY.  351 

her,  but  because  there  dwelt  the  only  professional  friend 
he  had  in  the  neighbourhood — one  who  sympathized  with 
his  views  of  things,  and  would  not  close  his  heart  against 
him  because  he  did  not  believe  that  tliis  horrid,  ugl}', 
disjointed  thing  of  a  world  had  been  made  by  a  God  of 
love.  Generally,  he  had  been  in  the  way  of  dwelling  on 
the  loveliness  of  its  developments,  and  the  beauty  of 
the  gradual  adaptation  of  life  to  circumstance ;  but  now 
it  was  plainer  to  him  than  ever,  that,  if  made  at  all,  it  was 
made  by  an  evil  being ;  "  — for,"  he  said,  and  said 
truly,  "  a  conscious  being  without  heart  must  be  an 
evil  being."  This  was  the  righteous  judgment  of  a  man 
who  could,  by  one  tender,  consoling  word,  have  made 
the  sun  rise  upon  a  glorious  world  of  conscious  woman- 
hood, but  would  not  say  that  word,  and  left  that  world 
lying  in  the  tortured  chaos  of  a  slow  disintegration. 
This  conscious  being  with  a  heart,  this  Paul  Faber,  wlio 
saw  that  a  God  of  love  was  the  only  God  supposable, 
set  his  own  pride  so  far  above  love,  that  his  one  idea 
was,  to  satisfy  the  justice  of  his  outraged  dignity  by  the 
torture  of  the  sinner  ! — even  while  all  the  time  dimly 
aware  of  rebuke  in  his  soul.  If  she  should  have  destroyed 
herself,  he  said  once  and  again  as  he  rode,  was  it  more 
than  a  just  sacrifice  to  his  wronged  honour?  As  such 
he  would  accept  it.  If  she  had,  it  was  best — best  for 
her,  and  best  for  him !  What  so  much  did  it  matter ! 
She  was  very  lovely — true  ! — but  what  was  the  quintes- 
sence of  dust  to  him  ?  Where  either  was  there  any  great 
loss  ?  He  and  she  would  soon  be  wrapped  up  in  the 
primal  darkness,  the  mother  and  grave  of  all  things, 
together !— no,  not  together ;  not  even  in  the  dark  of 
nothingness  could  they  two  any  more  lie  together! 
Hot  tears  forced  their  way  into  his  eyes,  whence  they 
rolled  down,  the  lava  of  the  soul,  scorching  his 
cheeks.  He  struck  his  spurs  into  Ruber  fiercely,  and 
rode  madly  on. 

At  length  he  neared  the  outskirts  of  Broughill.     He 
had  ridden  at  a  fearful  pace  across  country,  leaving  all 


352  rAUL  FABER. 

to  his  horse,  who  had  carried  him  wisely  as  well  as  bravely. 
But  Ruber,  although  he  had  years  of  good  work  left  in 
hini,  was  not  in  his  first  strength,  and  was  getting 
exhausted  with  his  wild  morning.  For,  all  the  way,  his 
master,  apparently  unconscious  of  everything  else,  had 
been  immediately  aware  of  the  slightest  slackening  of 
muscle  under  him,  the  least  faltering  of  the  onward  pace, 
and,  in  the  temper  of  the  savage,  which  wakes  the 
moment  the  man  of  civilization  is  hard  put  to  it,  the 
moment  he  flagged,  still  drove  the  cruel  spurs  into  his 
flanks,  when  the  grand,  unresenting  creature  would  rush 
forward  at  straining  speed— not,  I  venture  to  think,  so 
much  in  obedience  to  the  pain,  as  in  obedience  to  the 
will  of  his  master,  fresh  recognized  through  the  pain. 

Close  to  the  high  road,  where  they  were  now  approach- 
ing it  through  the  fields,  a  rail-fence  had  just  been  put 
up,  enclosing  a  piece  of  ground  which  the  owner  wished 
to  let  for  building.  That  the  fact  might  be  known,  he 
was  about  to  erect  a  post  with  a  great  board  announcing 
it.  For  this  post  a  man  had  dug  the  hole,  and  then 
gone  to  his  dinner.  The  enclosure  lay  between  Faber 
and  the  road,  in  the  direct  line  he  was  taking.  On 
went  Ruber  blindly — more  blindly  than  his  master  knew, 
for,  with  the  prolonged  running,  he  had  partially  lost 
his  sight,  so  that  he  was  close  to  the  fence  before  he 
saw  it.  But  he  rose  boldly,  and  cleared  it — to  light,  alas  ! 
on  the  other  side  with  a  foreleg  in  the  hole.  Down  he 
came  with  a  terrible  crash,  pitched  his  master  into  the 
road  upon  his  head,  and  lay  groaning  with  a  broken 
leg.  Faber  neither  spoke  nor  moved,  but  lay  as  he  fell. 
A  poor  woman  ran  to  his  assistance,  and  finding  she  could 
do  nothing  for  him,  hurried  to  the  town  for  help.  His 
friend,  who  was  the  first  surgeon  in  the  place,  flew  to 
the  spot,  and  had  him  carried  to  his  house.  It  was  a 
severe  case  of  concussion  of  the  brain. 

Poor  old  Ruber  was  speedily  helped  to  a  world  better 
than  this  for  horses,  I  trust. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STUDY.  353 

Meantime  Glaston  was  in  commotion.  The  ser- 
vants had  spread  the  frightful  news  that  their  mistress 
had  vanished,  and  their  master  ridden  off  like  a  mad- 
man. "  But  he  won't  find  her  alive,  poor  lady  !  I  don't 
think,"  was  the  general  close  of  their  communication, 
accompanied  by  a  would-be  wise  and  really  sympathetic 
shake  of  the  head.  In  this  conclusion  most  agreed,  for 
there  was  a  general  impression  of  something  strange 
about  her,  partly  occasioned  by  the  mysterious  way  in 
which  Mrs.  Puckridge  had  spoken  concerning  her  illness 
and  the  marvellous  thing  the  doctor  had  done  to  save 
her  life.  People  now  supposed  that  she  had  gone  suddenly 
mad,  or,  rather,  that  the  latent  madness  so  plain  to 
read  in  those  splendid  eyes  of  hers  had  been  suddenly 
developed,  and  that  under  its  influence  she  had  rushed 
away,  and  probably  drowned  herself.  Nor  were  there 
wanting,  among  the  discontented  women  of  Glaston, 
some  who  regarded  the  event — vaguely  to  their  own  con- 
sciousness, I  gladly  admit — as  almost  a  judgment  upon 
Faber  for  marrying  a  woman  of  whom  nobody  knew  any- 
thing. 

Hundreds  went  out  to  look  for  tlie  body  down  the 
river.  Many  hurried  to  an  old  quarr}-,  half  full  of  water, 
on  the  road  to  Broughill,  and  peered  horror-stricken  over 
the  edge,  but  said  nothing.  The  boys  of  Glaston  were 
mainly  of  a  mind  that  the  pond  at  the  Old  House  was  of 
all  places  the  most  likely  to  attract  a  suicide,  for  with  the 
fascination  of  its  horrors  they  were  themselves  acquainted. 
I'hither  therefore  they  sped  ;  and  soon  Glaston  received 
its  expected  second  shock  in  the  tidings  that  a  lady's 
bonnet  had  been  found  floating  in  the  frightful  pool  : 
while  in  the  wet  mass  the  boys  brought  back  with  them, 
some  of  her  acc^uaintance  recognized  with  certainty  a 
bonnet  they  had  seen  Mrs.  Faber  wear.  There  was 
no  room  left  for  doubt :  the  body  of  the  poor  lady  was 
lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  pool !  A  multitude  rushed 
at  once  to  the  spot,  although  they  knew  it  was  impossible 

A  A 


354  PAUL  FABER. 

to  drag  the  pool,  so  deep  was  it,  and  for  its  depth  so 
small.  Neither  would  she  ever  come  to  the  surface,  they 
said,  for  the  pikes  and  eels  would  soon  leave  nothing 
but  the  skeleton.  So  CUaston  took  the  whole  matter  for 
ended,  and  began  to  settle  down  again  to  its  own  affairs, 
condoling  greatly  with  the  poor  gentleman,  sucli  a 
favourite  !  who,  so  young,  and  after  such  a  brief  experience 
of  marriage,  had  lost,  in  such  a  sad  way,  a  wife  so  hand- 
some, so  amiable,  so  clever.  But  some  said  a  doctor 
ought  to  have  known  better  than  marry  such  a  person, 
however  handsome,  and  they  hoped  it  would  be  a  lesson 
to  him.  On  the  whole,  so  sorry  for  him  was  Glaston, 
that,  if  the  doctor  could  then  have  gone  about  it  in- 
visible, he  would  have  found  he  had  more  friends  and 
fewer  enemies  than  he  had  supposed. 

For  the  first  two  or  three  days  no  one  was  surprised 
that  he  did  not  make  his  appearance.  They  thought  he 
was  upon  some  false  trail.  But  when  four  days  had 
elapsed  and  no  news  was  heard  of  him,  for  his  friend, 
knowing  nothing  of  what  had  happened,  had  written  to 
Mrs.  Faber,  and  the  letter  lay  unopened,  some  began  to 
hint  that  he  must  have  had  a  hand  in  his  wife's  disap- 
pearance, and  to  breathe  a  presentiment  that  he  would 
never  more  be  seen  in  Glaston.  On  the  morning  of  the 
fifth  day,  however,  his  accident  was  known,  and  that  he 
was  lying  insensible  at  the  house  of  his  friend.  Dr.  May ; 
whereupon,  although  here  and  there  might  be  heard  the 
expression  of  a  pretty  strong  conviction  as  to  the  cha- 
racter of  the  visitation,  the  sympathy  both  felt  and  uttered 
was  larger  than'  before.  The  other  medical  men  imme- 
diately divided  his  practice  amongst  them,  to  keep  it 
together  against  his  possible  return,  though  few  believed 
he  would  ever  again  look  on  scenes  darkened  by  the 
memory  of  bliss  so  suddenly  blasted. 

For  weeks  his  recovery  was  doubtful,  during  which 
time,  even  if  they  had  dared,  it  would  have  been  useless 
to  attempt  acquainting  him  with  what  all  believed  the 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STUDY.  355 

certainty  of  liis  loss.  But  when  at  length  he  woke  to 
a  memory  of  tlie  past,  and  began  to  desire  information, 
his  friend  was  compelled  to  answer  his  questions.  lie 
closed  his  lips,  bowed  his  head  on  his  breast,  gave  a 
great  sigh,  and  held  his  peace.  Every  one  saw  that  he 
was  terribly  stricken. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


THE      MIND      OF     JULIET. 

^?^fHERE  was  one,  however,  who,  I  must 
confess,  was  not  a  little  relieved  at  the 
news  of  what  had  befallen  Faber.  For, 
although  far  from  desiring  his  death, 
which  indeed  would  have  ruined  some  of 
her  warmest  hopes  for  Juliet,  Dorothy 
greatly  dreaded  meeting  him.  She  was  a  poor  dissembler, 
hated  even  the  shadow  of  a  lie,  and  here  was  a  fact, 
which,  if  truth  could  conceal  it,  must  not  be  known. 
Her  dread  had  been,  that,  the  first  time  she  saw  Faber, 
it  would  be  beyond  her  power  to  look  innocent,  that  her 
knowledge  would  be  legible  in  her  face  ;  and  much  she 
hoped  their  first  encounter  might  be  in  the  presence  of 
Helen  or  some  other  ignorant  friend,  behind  whose  in- 
nocent front  she  might  shelter  her  conscious  secrecy. 
To  truth  such  a  silence  must  feel  like  a  culpable  decep- 
tion, and  I  do  not  think  such  a  painful  position  can  ever 
arise  except  from  wrong  somewhere.  Dorothy  could  not 
tell  a  lie.  She  could  not  try  to  tell  one  ;  and  if  she  had 
tried,  she  would  have  been  instantly  discovered  through  the 
enn^ity  of  her  very  being  to  the  lie  she  told  ;  from  her  lips 
it  would  have  been  as  transparent  as  the  truth.  It  is  no 
wonder  therefore  that  she  felt  relieved  when  first  she 
heard  of  the  durance  in  which  Faber  was  lying.     But  she 


THE  MIND  OF  JULIET.  357 

felt  equal  to  the  withholding  from  Juliet  of  the  know- 
ledge of  her  husband's  condition  for  the  present.  She 
judged  that,  seeing  she  had  saved  her  friend's  life,  she 
had  some  right  to  think  and  choose  for  the  preservation 
of  that  life. 

Meantime  she  must  beware  of  security,  and  cultivate 
caution  \  and  so  successful  was  she,  that  weeks  passed, 
and  not  a  single  doubt  associated  Dorothy  with  know- 
ledge where  others  desired  to  know.  Not  even  her  father 
had  a  suspicion  in  the  direction  of  the  fact.  She  knew 
he  would  one  day  approve  both  of  what  she  did,  and  of 
her  silence  concerning  it.  To  tell  him,  thoroughly  as 
he  was  to  be  trusted,  would  be  to  increase  the  risk  ;  and 
besides,  she  had  no  right  to  reveal  a  woman's  secret  to  a 
man. 

It  was  a  great  satisfaction,  however,  notwithstanding 
her  dread  of  meeting  him,  to  hear  that  Faber  had  at 
length  returned  to  Glaston  ;  for  if  he  had  gone  away,  how 
could  they  liave  ever  known  what  to  do  ?  For  one  thing, 
if  he  were  beyond  their  knowledge,  he  miglit  any  day,  in 
full  confidence,  go  and  marry  again. 

Her  father  not  unfrequently  accompanied  her  to  the 
Old  House,  but  Juliet  and  she  had  arranged  such  signals, 
and  settled  such  understandings,  that  the  simple  man  saw 
nothing,  heard  nothing,  forefelt  nothing.  Now  and  then 
a  little  pang  would  quaver  through  Dorothy's  bosom,  when 
she  caught  sight  of  him  peering  down  into  the  terrible 
dusk  of  the  pool,  or  heard  him  utter  some  sympathetic 
hope  for  the  future  of  poor  Faber ;  but  she  comforted 
herself  with  the  thought  of  how  glad  he  would  be  when 
she  was  able  to  tell  him  all,  and  how  he  would  laugh  over 
the  story  of  their  precautions  against  himself. 

Her  chief  anxiety  was  for  Juliet's  health,  even  more 
for  the  sake  of  avoiding  discovery,  than  for  its  own.  When 
the  nights  were  warm  she  would  sometimes  take  her  out 
in  the  park,  and  every  day,  one  time  or  another,  would 
make  her  walk  in  the  garden  while  she  kept  watch  on  the 
top  of  the  steep  slope.  Her  father  would  sometimes 
remark    to   a   friend    how    Dorothy's    love    of  solitude 


35S  PAUL  FABER. 

seemed  to  grow  upon  her  \  but  the  remark  suggested 
nothing,  and  slowly  Juliet  was  being  forgotten  at 
Glaston. 

It  seemed  to  Dorothy  strange  that  she  did  not  fall  ill. 
For  the  first  few  days  she  Avas  restless  and  miserable 
as  human  being  could  be.  She  had  but  one  chancre 
of  mood  :  either  she  would  talk  feverously,  or  sit  in  the 
gloomiest  silence,  now  and  then  varied  with  a  fit  of  aban- 
tloned  weeping.  Every  time  Dorothy  came  from  Glaston, 
she  would  overwhelm  her  with  questions — which  at  first 
Dorothy  could  easily  meet,  for  she  spoke  absolute  fact 
■w^hen  she  said  she  knew  nothing  concerning  her  hus- 
band. When  at  length  the  cause  of  his  absence  was 
understood,  she  told  her  he  was  with  his  friend.  Dr.  May, 
at  Broughill.  Knowing  the  universal  belief  that  she  had 
committed  suicide,  nothing  could  seem  more  natural. 
But  when,  day  after  day,  she  heard  the  same  thing  for 
weeks,  she  began  to  fear  he  would  never  be  able  to 
resume  his  practice,  at  least  at  Glaston,  and  wept  bitterly 
at  the  thought  of  the  evil  she  had  brought  upon  him 
who  had  given  her  life,  and  love  to  boot.  For  her  heart 
was  a  genuine  one,  and  dwelt  far  more  on  the  wrong 
her  too  eager  love  had  done  him,  than  on  the  hardness 
with  which  he  had  resented  it.  Nay,  she  admired  him 
for  the  fierceness  of  his  resentment,  witnessing,  in  her 
eyes,  to  the  purity  of  the  man  whom  his  neighbours 
regarded  as  wicked. 

After  the  first  day,  she  paid  even  less  heed  to  anything 
of  a  religious  kind  with  which  Dorothy,  in  the  strength 
of  her  own  desire  after  a  perfect  stay,  sought  to  rouse  or 
console  her.  When  Dorothy  ventured  on  such  ground, 
which  grew  more  and  more  seldom,  she  would  sit 
listless,  heedless,  with  a  far-away  look.  Sometimes  when 
Dorothy  fancied  she  had  been  listening  a  little,  her  next 
words  would  show  that  her  thoughts  had  been  only  with 
her  husband.  When  the  subsiding  of  the  deluge  of  her 
agony,  allowed  words  to  carry  meaning  to  her,  any  hint 
at  supernal  consolation  made  her  angry,  and  she  rejected 


THE  MIND  OF  JULIET.  359 

everything  Dorothy  said,  ahiiost  willa  indignalion.  To 
seem  even  to  accept  such  comfort,  she  would  have 
regarded  as  traitorous  to  her  husband.  Not  the  devo- 
tion of  the  friend  who  gave  up  to  her  all  of 
her  life  she  could  call  her  own,  sufticed  to  make 
her  listen  even  with  a  poor  patience.  So  absorbed  was 
she  in  her  trouble,  that  she  had  no  feeling  of  what 
Dorothy  had  done  for  her.  How  can  I  blame  her,  poor 
lady  !  If  existence  was  not  a  thing  to  be  enjoyed,  as  for 
her  it  certainly  was  not  at  present,  how  was  she  to  be 
thankful  for  what  seemed  its  preservation?  There  was 
much  latent  love  to  Dorothy  in  her  heart  ;  I  may  go  farther 
and  say  there  was  much  latent  love  to  God  in  her  heart, 
only  the  latter  was  very  latent  as  yet.  When  her  heart  was 
a  little  freer  from  grief  and  the  agony  of  loss,  she  would 
love  Dorothy  ;  but  God  must  wait  with  his  own  patience — 
wait  long  for  the  child  of  his  love  to  learn  that  her  very 
sorrow  came  of  his  dearest  affection.  Who  wants  such 
affection  as  that?  says  the  imloving.  No  one,  I  answer: 
but  every  one  who  comes  to  know  it,  glorifies  it  as  the 
only  love  that  ever  could  satisfy  his  being. 

Dorothy,  who  had  within  her  the  chill  of  her  own 
doubt,  soon  yielded  to  Juliet's  coldness,  and  ceased  to 
say  anything  that  could  be  called  religious.  She  saw  that 
it  was  not  the  time  to  speak ;  she  must  content  herself 
with  being.  Nor  had  it  ever  been  anything  very 
definite  she  could  say.  She  had  seldom  gone  beyond 
the  expression  of  her  own  hope,  and  the  desire  that  her 
friend  would  look  up.  She  could  say  that  all  the  men 
she  knew,  from  books  or  in  life,  of  the  most  delicate 
honesty,  the  most  genuine  repentance,  the  most  rigid 
self-denial,  the  loftiest  aspiration,  were  Christian  men  ; 
but  she  could  neither  say  her  knowledge  of  history  or  of 
life  was  large,  nor  that,  of  the  men  she  knew  who  pro- 
fessed to  believe,  the  greater  part  were  honest,  or  much 
ashamed,  or  rigid  against  themselves,  or  lofty  towards 
God.  She  saw  that  her  part  was  not  instruction,  but 
ministration,  and  that  in  obedience  to  Jesus  in  whom 


36o  PAUL  FABER. 

she  hoped  to  beHeve.  What  matter  that  poor  J"liet 
denied  him  ?  If  God  commended  his  love  towards  us, 
in  that  while  we  Avere  yet  sinners  Christ  died  for  us,  he 
would  be  pleased  with  the  cup  of  cold  water  given  to  one 
tliat  was  not  a  disciple.  Dorothy  dared  not  say  she  was 
a  disciple  herself;  she  dared  only  say  that  right  gladly 
would  she  become  one,  if  she  could.  If  only  the  lovely, 
the  good,  the  tender,  the  pure,  the  grand,  the  adorable, 
were  also  the  absolutely  true  ! — true  not  in  the  human 
idea  only,  but  in  absolute  fact,  in  divine  existence  !  If 
the  story  of  Jesus  was  true,  then  joy  to  the  universe,  for 
all  was  well !  She  waited,  and  hoped,  and  prayed,  and 
ministered. 

There  is  a  great  power  in  quiet,  for  God  is  in  it.  Not 
seldom  he  seems  to  lay  his  hand  on  one  of  his  children, 
as  a  mother  lays  hers  on  the  restless  one  in  his  crib,  to 
still  him.  Then  the  child  sleeps,  but  the  man  begins 
to  live  up  from  the  lower  depths  of  his  nature.  So  the 
winter  comes  to  still  the  plant  whose  life  has  been  rushing 
to  blossom  and  fruit.  When  the  hand  of  God  is  laid 
upon  a  man,  vain  moan,  and  struggle,  and  complaint,  it 
may  be  indignant  outcry  follows  :  but  when,  outwearied 
at  last  he  yields,  if  it  be  but  in  dull  submission  to  the 
inexorable,  and  is  still,  then  the  God  at  the  heart  of  him, 
the  God  that  is  there  or  the  man  could  not  be,  begins  to 
grow.  This  point  Juliet  had  not  yet  reached,  and  her 
trouble  went  on.  She  saw  no  light,  no  possibl'e  outlet. 
Her  cries,  her  longings,  her  agonies,  could  not  reach 
even  the  ears,  could  never  reach  the  heart  of  the  man 
who  had  cast  her  off.  He  believed  her  dead,  might  go 
and  marry  another,  and  what  would  be  left  her  then  ? 
Nothing  but  the  death  from  which  she  now  restrained 
herself,  lest,  as  Dorothy  had  taught  her,  she  should  deny 
him  the  fruits  of  a  softening  heart  and  returning  love. 
The  moment  she  heard  that  he  sought  another,  she 
would  seek  Death,  and  assuredly  find  him.  One  letter 
she  would  write  to  leave  behind  her,  and  then  go.  He 
should  see  and  understand  that  the  woman  he  despised 


THE  MIND  OF  JULIET.  361 

for  the  fault  of  the  girl,  was  yet  capable  of  the  noblest 
act  of  a  wife  :  she  would  die  that  he  might  live — that  it 
might  be  well  with  her  husband.  Having  entertained, 
comprehended,  and  setded  this  idea  in  her  mind,  she  be- 
came quieter.  xAfter  this,  Dorothy  miglit  have  spoken 
without  stirring  uj)  so  angry  an  opposition.  But  it  was 
quite  as  well  she  did  not  know  it,  and  did  not  speak. 

I  have  said  that  Dorothy  wondered  she  did  not  fall 
ill.  There  was  a  hope  in  Juliet's  mind  of  which  she  had 
not  spoken,  but  upon  which,  though  vaguely,  she  built 
further  hope,  and  which  may  have  had  part  in  her  physical 
endurance  :  the  sight  of  his  baby  might  move  the  heart 
of  her  husband  to  pardon  her ! 

But  the  time,  even  with  the  preoccupation  of  misery,  grew 
very  dreary.  She  had  never  had  any  resources  in  herself 
except  her  music,  and  even  if  here  she  had  had  any  oppor- 
tunity of  drawing  upon  that,  what  is  music  but  a  mockery 
to  a  breaking  heart  ?  Was  music  ever  born  of  torture,  of 
misery  ?  It  is  only  when  the  cloud  of  sorrow  is  sinking 
in  the  sun-rays,  that  the  song-larks  awake  and  ascend. 
A  glory  of  some  sort  must  fringe  the  skirts  of  any  sad- 
ness, the  light  of  the  sorrowing  soul  itself  must  be  shed 
upon  it,  and  the  cloud  must  be  far  enough  removed  to 
show  the  reflected  light,  before  it  will  yield  any  of  the 
stuff  of  which  songs  are  made.  And  this  light  that 
gathers  in  song,  what  is  it  but  hope  behind  the  sorrow — 
hope  so  little  recognized  as  such,  that  it  is  often  called 
despair  ?  It  is  reviving  and  not  decay  that  sings  even 
the  saddest  of  songs. 

Juliet  had  had  little  consciousness  of  her  own  being  as 
an  object  of  reflection.  Joy  and  sorrow  came  and  went; 
she  had  never  brooded.  Never  until  now,  had  she  known 
any  very  deep  love.  Even  that  she  bore  her  father,  had 
not  ripened  into  the  grand  love  of  the  woman-child. 
She  forgot  quickly ;  she  hoped  easily  ;  she  had  some 
courage,  and  naturally  much  activity ;  she  faced  neces- 
sity by  instinct,  and  took  almost  no  thought  for  the 
morrow — but  this  after  the  fashion  of  the  birds,  not  after 


>62  PAUL  FABER. 

the  fashion  reqiured  of  those  wlio  can  consider  the  birds  : 
it  is  one  thing  to  take  no  thought,  for  want  of  thought, 
and  another  to  take  no  thought,  from  sufficing  thought, 
whose  Hower  is  confidence.  The  one  way  is  the  lovely 
way  of  God  in  the  birds— the  other,  his  lovelier  way  in 
his  men  and  women.  She  had  in  her  the  making  of  a 
noble  woman — only  that  is  true  of  every  woman  3  and  it 
was  no  truer  of  her  than  of  every  other  woman,  thai, 
without  religion,  she  could  never  be,  in  any  worthy  sense, 
a  woman  at  all.  I  know  how  narrow  and  absurd  this 
will  sound  to  many  of  my  readers,  but  such  simply  do 
not  know  what  religion  means,  and  think  I  do  not  know 
what  a  woman  means.  Hitherto  her  past  had  always 
turned  to  a  dream  as  it  glided  away  from  her  \  but  now, 
in  the  pauses  of  her  prime  agony,  the  tide  rose  from  the 
infinite  sea  to  which  her  river  ran,  and  all  her  past  was 
borne  back  upon  her,  even  to  her  far-gone  childish  quarrels 
with  her  silly  mother,  and  the  neglect  and  disobedience 
she  had  too  often  been  guilty  of  towards  her  father. 
And  the  centre  of  her  memories  was  the  hot  coal  of  that 
one  secret ;  around  that  they  all  burned  and  hissed. 
Now  for  the  first  time  her  past7i'(7j-,  and  she  cowered  and 
fled  from  it,  a  slave  to  her  own  history,  to  her  own  deeds, 
to  her  own  concealments.  Alas,  like  many  another  terror- 
stricken  child,  to  whom  the  infinite  bosom  of  tenderness 
and  love  stretches  out  arms  of  shelter  and  healing  and 
life,  she  turned  to  the  bosom  of  death,  and  imagined 
there  a  shelter  of  oblivious  darkness  !  For  life  is  a  thing 
so  deep,  so  high,  so  pure,  so  far  above  the  reach  of 
common  thought,  that,  although  shadowed  out  in  all  the 
harmonic  glories  of  colour,  and  speech,  and  song,  and 
scent,  and  motion,  and  shine,  yea  even  of  eyes  and 
loving  hands,  to  common  minds— and  the  more  merely 
intellectual,  the  commoner  are  they — it  seems  but  a 
jiliantasm.  To  unchildlike  minds,  the  region  of  love  and 
worship,  to  which  lead  the  climbing  stairs  of  duty,  is  but 
a  nephelocockygia :  they  acknowledge  the  stairs,  how- 
ever, thank  God,  and  if  they  will  but  climb,  a  hand  will  be 


THE  MIND  OF  JULIET.  363 

held  out  to  them.  Now,  to  pray  to  a  God,  the  very  thought 
of  wliose  possible  existence  might  seem  enough  to  turn 
the  coal  of  a  dead  life  into  a  diamond  of  eternal  radiance, 
is  with  many  sucli  enough  to  stamp  a  man  a  fool.  It 
will  surprise  me  nothing  in  the  new  world  to  hear  such 
men,  finding  they  are  not  dead  after  all,  begin  at  once 
to  argue  that  they  were  quite  right  in  refusing  to  act  upon 
any  bare  possibility — forgetting  that  the  questioning  of 
possibilities  has  been  the  source  of  all  scientific  know- 
ledge. They  may  say  that  to  them  there  seemed  no 
possibility  ;  upon  which  will  come  the  (piestion — whence 
arose  their  incapacity  for  seeing  it  ?  In  the  meantime, 
that  the  same  condition  which  constitutes  the  bliss  of  a 
child,  should  also  be  the  essential  bliss  of  a  man,  is 
incomprehensible  to  him  in  whom  the  child  is  dead,  or 
so  fast  asleep  that  nothing  but  a  trumpet  of  terror  can 
awake  him.  I'hat  the  rules  of  the  nursery — I  mean  the 
nursery  where  the  true  mother  is  the  present  genius,  not 
the  hell  at  the  top  of  a  London  house — that  the  rules 
of  the  nursery  over  which  broods  a  wise  motlier  with 
outspread  wings  of  tenderness,  should  be  the  laws  also 
of  cosmic  order,  of  a  world's  well-being,  of  national 
greatness,  and  of  all  personal  dignity,  may  well  be  an  old- 
■wives'-fable  to  the  man  who  dabbles  at  saving  the  world 
by  science,  education,  hygeian  and  other  economics. 
There  is  a  knowledge  that  will  do  it,  but  of  that  he 
knows  so  little,  that  he  will  not  allow  it  to  be  a  know- 
ledge at  all.  Into  what  would  he  save  the  world  ?  His 
paradise  would  prove  a  ten  times  more  miserable  condi- 
tion than  that  out  of  which  he  thought  to  rescue  it. 

But  anything  that  gives  objectivity  to  trouble,  that  lifts 
the  cloud  so  far  that,  if  but  for  a  moment,  it  shows  itselt 
a  cloud,  instead  of  being  felt  an  enveloping,  penetrating, 
palsying  mist — setting  it  where  the  mind  can  in  its 
turn  prey  upon  it,  can  play  with  it,  paint  it,  may  come  to 
sing  of  it,  is  a  great  help  towards  what  health  may  yet  be 
possible  for  the  troubletl  soul.  With  a  woman's  instinct, 
Dorothy    borrowed    from   the  curate    a    volume    of    a 


364  PAUL  FABER. 

certain  more  attractive  edition  of  Shakspere  than  she 
herself  possessed,  and  left  it  in  Juliet's  way,  so  arranged 
that  it  should  open  at  the  tragedy  of  Othello.  She 
thought  that,  if  she  could  be  drawn  into  sympathy  with 
suffering  like,  but  different  and  apart  from  her  own,  it 
would  take  her  a  little  out  of  herself,  and  might  lighten 
tlie  pressure  of  her  load.  Now  Juliet  had  never  read  a 
play  of  Shakspere  in  her  life,  and  knew  Othello  only 
after  the  vulgar  interpretation,  as  the  type,  that  is,  of 
jealousy;  but  when,  in  a  pause  of  the  vague  reverie  of 
feeling  which  she  called  thought,  a  touch  of  ennui 
supervening  upon  suffering,  she  began  to  read  the  play, 
the  condition  of  her  own  heart  afforded  her  the  insight 
necessary  for  descrying  more  truly  the  Othello  of  Shak- 
spcre's  mind.  She  wept  over  Desdemona's  innocence  and 
hard  fixte  ;  but  she  pitied  more  the  far  harder  fate  of 
Othello,  and  found  the  death  of  both  a  consolation  for 
the  trouble  their  troubles  had  stirred  up  in  her. 

The  curate  was  in  the  habit  of  scribbling  on  his 
books,  and  at  the  end  of  the  play,  which  left  a.  large 
blank  on  the  page,  had  written  a  few  verses  :  as  she  sat 
dreaming  over  the  tragedy,  Juliet  almost  unconsciously 
took  them  in.     They  were  these  : 

In  the  hot  hell  o' 
Jealousy  shines  Othello- 
Love  in  despair, 
An  angel  in  flames  ! 
Wliile  ]iuie  Desdemona 
Waits  him  alone,  a 
Ghost  in  the  air, 
White  with  his  blames. 

Becoming  suddenly  aware  of  their  import,  she  burst 
out  weeping  afre:;h,  but  with  a  very  different  weeping. — 
Ah,  if  it  miglit  be  so  !  Soon  then  had  the  repent- 
ant Othello,  rushing  after  his  wife,  explained  all,  and 
received  easiest  pardon  :  he  had  but  killed  her.  Her 
Paul  would  not  even  do  that  for  her  !  He  did  not 
love  her  enough  for  that.  If  she  had  but  thrown  her- 
self   indeed  into    the  lake,   then   perhaps — who   could 


THE  MIND  OF  JULIET.  365 

tell  ? — she  might  now  be  nearer  to  liim  than  she  should 
ever  be  in  this  world. 

All  the  time,  Dorothy  was  much  and  vainly  exercised 
as  to  what  might  become  possible  for  the  bringing  of 
them  together  again.  But  it  was  not  as  if  any  misun- 
derstanding had  arisen  between  them :  such  a  difficulty 
might  any  moment  be  removed  by  an  explanation.  The 
thing  that  divided  them  was  the  original  misunderstand- 
ing, which  lies,  deep  and  black  as  the  pit,  between  every 
soul  and  the  soul  next  it,  where  self  and  not  God  is  the 
final  thought.  The  gulf  is  for  ever  crossed  by  ''  bright 
shoots  of  everlastingness,"  the  lightnings  of  involuntary 
affection  ;  but  nothing  less  than  the  willed  love  of  an 
infinite  devotion  will  serve  to  close  it ;  any  moment  it 
may  be  lighted  up  from  beneath,  and  the  horrible  distance 
between  them  be  laid  bare.  Into  this  gulf  it  was  that,  with 
absolute  gift  of  himself,  the  Lord,  doing  like  his  Father, 
cast  himself;  and  by  such  devotion  alone  can  his  disciples 
become  fellow-workers  with  him,  help  to  slay  the  evil 
self  in  the  world,  and  rouse  the  holy  self  to  like  sacri- 
fice, that  the  true,  the  eternal  life  of  men,  may  arise 
jubilant  and  crowned.  Then  is  the  old  man  of  claims 
and  rights  and  disputes  and  fears,  re-born  a  child  whose 
are  all  things  and  who  claims  and  fears  nothing. 

In  ignorance  of  Faber's  mood,  whether  he  mourned 
over  his  harshness,  or  justified  himself  in  resentment, 
Dorothy  could  but  wait,  and  turned  herself  again  to  think 
what  could  be  done  for  the  consolation  of  her  friend. 

Could  she,  knowing  her  prayer  might  be  one  which 
God  would  not  grant,  urge  her  to  pray.^  For  herself,  she 
knew,  if  there  was  a  God,  what  she  desired  must  be  in 
accordance  with  his  Avill  \  but  if  Juliet  cried  to  him  to 
give  her  back  her  husband,  and  he  did  not,  would  not 
the  silent  refusal,  the  deaf  ear  of  heaven,  send  back  the 
cry  in  settled  despair  upon  her  spirit  ?  ^Vith  her  own 
fear  Dorothy  feared  for  her  friend.  She  had  not  yet 
come  to  see  that,  in  whatever  trouble  a  man  may  find 
himself,   the  natural   thing  being  to  make   his  recjuest 


366  PAUL  FABER. 

known,  his  brother  may  heartily  tell  him  to  pray.  Why, 
what  can  a  man  do  but  pray?  He  is  here — helpless  ;  and 
his  Origin,  the  breather  of"  his  soul,  his  God,  may  be 
somewhere.  And  what  else  should  he  pray  about  but 
the  thing  that  troubles  him  ?  Not  surely  the  thing 
that  does  not  trouble  him  !  What  is  the  trouble  there 
for,  but  to  make  him  cry?  It  is  the  pull  of  God  at 
his  being.  Let  a  man  only  pray.  Prayer  is  the  sound  to 
which  not  merely  is  the  ear  of  the  Father  open,  but  for 
which  that  ear  is  listening.  Let  him  pray  for  the  thing  he 
thinks  he  needs  :  tor  what  else,  I  repeat,  can  he  pray? 
Let  a  man  cry  for  that  in  whose  loss  life  is  growing  black  : 
the  heart  of  the  Father  is  open.  Only  let  the  man  know 
that,  even  for  his  prayer,  the  Father  will  not  give  him  a 
stone.  But  let  the  man  pray,  and  let  God  see  to  it  how 
to  answer  him.  If  in  his  childishness  and  ignorance  he 
should  ask  for  a  serpent,  he  will  not  give  him  a  serpent. 
But  it  may  yet  be  the  Father  will  find  some  way  of 
giving  him  his  heart's  desire.  God  only  knows  how  rich 
God  is  in  power  of  gift.  See  what  he  has  done  to  make 
himself  able  to  give  to  his  own  heart's  desire.  The  giving 
of  his  son  was  as  the  knife  with  which  he  would  divide  him- 
self amongst  his  children.  He  knows,  he  only,  the  heart, 
the  needs,  the  deep  desires,  the  hungry  eternity,  of  each 
of  them  all.  Therefore  let  every  man  ask  of  God,  who 
giveth  to  all  men  liberally  and  upbraideth  not — and  see 
at  least  what  will  come  of  it. 

But  he  will  speak  like  one  of  the  foolish  if  he  say  thus : 
"  Let  God  hear  me,  and  give  me  my  desire,  and  I  will 
trust  in  him."  That  would  be  to  tempt  the  Lord  his 
God.  If  a  father  gives  his  children  their  will  instead 
of  his,  they  may  well  turn  on  him  again  and  say  : 
"Was  it  then  the  part  of  a  father  to  give  me  a  scorpion 
because,  not  knowing  what  it  was,  I  asked  for  it  ?  I 
besought  him  for  a  fancied  joy,  and  lo  !  it  is  a  sorrow  for 
evermore !" 

But  it  may  be  that  sometimes  God  indeed  does  so,  and 
lo  such  a  possible  complaint  has  this  reply  in  himself :  "I 


Tim  MIND  OF  JULIET.  367 

gave  thee  what  tliou  wouldst,  because  not  otherwise  could  I 
teacli  the  stift-necked  his  folly.  Hadst  diou  been  patient, 
I  would  have  made  the  thing  a  joy  ere  I  gave  it  thee  ;  I 
would  have  changed  the  scorpion  into  a  golden  beetle,  set 
with  rubies  and  sapphires.     Have  thou  patience  now." 

One  thing  is  clear,  that  poor  Juliet,  like  most  women, 
and  more  men,  would  never  have  begun  to  learn  anything 
worth  learning,  if  she  had  not  been  brought  into  genuine, 
downright  trouble.  Indeed  I  am  not  sure  but  some  of 
those  who  seem  so  good  as  to  require  no  trouble,  are 
just  those  who  have  already  been  most  severely  tried 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 


ANOTHER  MIND. 


UT  while  the  two  ladies  weve  free  of  all  sus- 
picion of  danger,  and  indeed  were  quite  safe, 
the}'  were  not  alone  in  the  knowledge  of 
g.  ,  n=^g,  ,  -=  their  secret.  There  was  one  who,  for  some 
li^lcTl^d  time,  had  been  on  the  track  of  it,  and 
had  long  ago  traced  it  with  certainty  to  its 
covert :  indeed  he  had  all  but  seen  into  it  from  the  first. 
But,  although  to  his  intimate  friends  known  as  a  great 
and  indeed  wonderful  talker,  he  was  generally  regarded 
as  a  somewhat  silent  man,  and  in  truth  possessed  to  per- 
fection the  gift  of  holding  his  tongue.  Except  that  his 
outward  insignificance  was  so  great  as  to  pass  the  ex- 
treme, he  was  not  one  to  attract  attention ;  but  those 
who  knew  Wingfold  well,  heard  him  speak  of  Mr.  Pol- 
warth,  the  gate-keeper,  oftener  than  of  any  other ;  and 
from  what  she  heard  him  say,  Dorothy  had  come  to 
have  a  great  reverence  for  the  man,  although  she  knew 
him  very  little. 

In  returning  from  Nestley  with  Juliet  by  her  side, 
Helen  had  taken  the  road  through  Osterfield  Park.  ^Vhen 
they  reached  Pohvarth's  gate,  she  had,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  pulled  up,  that  they  might  have  a  talk  with  the 
keeper.  He  had,  on  the  few  occasions  on  which  he 
caught  a  passing  glimpse  of  Miss  Meredith,  been  struck 


ANOTHER  MIND.  369 

with  a  something  in  her  that  to  him  seemed  to  take  from 
her  beauty — that  look  of  strangeness,  namely,  which  every 
one  felt,  and  which  I  imagine  to  have  come  of  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  secret,  holding  her  back  from  blending 
with  the  human  wave ;  and  now,  therefore,  while  the 
carriage  stood,  he  glanced  often  at  her  countenance. 

From  long  observation,  much  silence  and  gentle  pon- 
dering ;  from  constant  illness,  and  frequent  recurrence  of 
great  suffering ;  from  loving  acceptance  of  the  same, 
and  hence  an  overflowing  sympathy  with  every  form  of 
humanity,  even  that  more  dimly  revealed  in  the  lower 
animals,  and  especially  suffering  humanity;  from  deep 
acquaintance  with  the  motions  of  his  own  spirit,  and 
the  fullest  conviction  that  one  man  is  as  another  ;  from  the 
entire  confidence  of  all  who  knew  him,  and  the  results  of 
his  efforts  to  help  them ;  above  all,  from  persistently 
dwelling  in  the  secret  place  of  the  Most  High,  and  thus 
entering  into  the  hidden  things  of  life  from  the  centre 
whence  the  issues  of  them  diverged — from  all  these  had 
been  developed  in  him,  through  wisest  use,  an  insight  into 
the  natures  of  men,  a  power  of  reading  the  countenance,  an 
apprehension  of  what  was  moving  in  the  mind,  a  contact, 
almost  for  the  moment  a  junction  with  the  goings  on  of 
their  spirits,  which  at  times  revealed  to  him  not  only 
character,  and  prevailing  purpose  or  drift  of  nature,  but 
even  the  main  points  of  a  past  moral  history.  Sometimes 
indeed  he  would  recoil  with  terror  from  what  seemed  the 
threatened  dawn  in  him  of  a  mysterious  power,  probably 
latent  in  every  soul,  of  reading  the  future  of  a  person 
brought  within  certain  points  of  spiritual  range.  What 
startled  him,  however,  may  have  been  simply  an  involun- 
tary conclusion,  instantaneously  drawn,  from  the  plain 
convergence  of  all  the  forces  in  and  upon  the  individual 
towards  a  point  of  final  deliverance  or  of  near  catas- 
trophe :  when  "  the  mortal  instruments"  are  steadily 
working  for  evil,  the  only  hope  of  deliverance  lies  in 
catastrophe. 

When  Polwarth  had  thus  an   opportunity  of  reading 

B  B 


370  PAUL  FABER, 

Juliet's  countenance,  it  was  not  wearing  its  usual  expres- 
sion :  the  ferment  set  at  work  in  her  mind  by  the  curate's 
sermon  had  intensified  the  strangeness  of  it,  even  to 
something  almost  of  definement ;  and  it  so  arrested  him 
that  after  the  ponies  had  darted  away  like  birds,  he 
stood  for  a  whole  minute  in  the  spot  and  posture  in  which 
they  had  left  him. 

"  I  never  saw  Polwarth  look  distrait  before,"  said  the 
curate,  and  was  about  to  ask  Juliet  whether  she  had 
not  been  bewitching  him,  when  the  for-away  miserable 
look  of  lier  checked  him,  and  he  dropped  back  into  his 
seat  in  silence. 

But  Polwarth  had  had  no  sudden  insight  into  Juliet's 
condition ;  all  he  had  seen  was,  that  she  was  strangely 
troubled — and  that 'with  no  single  feeling;  that  there 
was  an  undecided  contest  in  her  spirit ;  that  something 
was  required  of  her  which  she  had  not  yet  resolved  to 
yield.  Almost  the  moment  she  vanished  from  his  sight, 
it  da^\'ned  upon  him  that  she  had  a  secret.  As  one 
knows  by  the  signs  of  the  heavens  that  the  matter  of  a 
storm  is  in  them  and  must  break  out,  so  Polwarth  had  read 
in  Juliet's  sky  the  inward  throes  of  a  pent  convulsion. 

He  knew  something  of  the  doctor,  for  he  had  met  him 
again  and  again  where  he  himself  was  trying  to  serve  ; 
but  they  had  never  had  conversation  together.  Faber 
had  not  an  idea  of  what  was  in  the  creature  who  repre- 
sented to  him  one  of  Nature's  faihires  at  man-making ; 
while  Polwarth,  from  what  he  heard  and  saw  of  the 
doctor,  knew  him  better  than  he  knew  himself;  and 
although  the  moment  when  he  could  ser\-e  him  liad  not 
begun  to  appear,  looked  for  such  a  moment  to  come. 
There  was  so  much  good  in  tlie  man,  that  his  heart 
longed  to  give  him  something  worth  liaving.  How 
Faber  would  ha^■e  laughed  at  the  notion  !  But  Pol- 
warth felt  confident  that  one  day  the  friendly  doctor 
would  be  led  out  of  the  miserable  desert  where  he 
crojjped  thisUes  and  sage  and  fancied  himself  a  hero. 
And  now  in  the  drawn  look  of  his  wife's  face,  in  the 


ANOTHER  I\IIND.  371 

broken  liglits  of  her  eye,  in  the  absorption  and  the  start, 
he  thouglit  he  perceived  tlic  quarter  whence  unwelcome 
deliverance  might  be  on  its  way,  and  resolved  to  keep 
attention  awake  for  what  might  appear.  In  his  inmost 
being  he  knew  that  the  mission  of  man  is  to  help  his 
neighbour.  But  in  as  much  as  he  was  ready  to  help, 
he  recoiled  from  meddling.  To  meddle  is  to  destroy 
the  holy  chance.  Meddlesomeness  is  the  very  opposite 
of  helpfulness,  for  it  consists  in  forcing  your  self  into 
another  self,  instead  of  opening  your  self  as  a  refuge  to 
the  other.  They  are  opposite  extremes,  and,  like  all 
extremes,  touch.  It  is  not  correct  that  extremes  meet ; 
they  lean  back  to  back.  To  Polwarth,  a  human  self 
was  a  shrine  to  be  approached  with  reverence,  even 
when  he  bore  deliverance  in  his  hand.  Anywhere, 
everywhere,  in  the  seventh  heaven  or  the  seventh  hell, 
he  could  worship  God  with  the  outstretched  arms  of  love, 
the  bended  knees  of  joyous  adoration,  but  in  helping  his 
fellow,  he  not  only  worshipped  but  served  God — 
ministered,  that  is',  to  the  wants  of  God— doing  it  unto 
him  in  the  least  of  his.  He  knew  that,  as  the  Father 
unresting  works  for  the  weal  of  men,  so  every  son, 
following  the  Master-Son,  must  work  also.  Through 
weakness  and  suffering  he  had  learned  it.  But  he  never 
doubted  that  his  work  as  much  as  his  bread  would  be 
given  him,  never  rushed  out  wildly  snatching  at  some- 
thing to  do  for  God,  never  helped  a  lazy  man  to  break 
stones,  never  preached  to  foxes.  It  was  what  the  Father 
gave  him  to  do,  that  he  cared  to  do,  and  that  only.  It 
was  the  man  next  him  that  he  helped — the  neighbour 
in  need  of  the  help  he  had.  He  did  not  trouble  himself 
greatly  about  the  happiness  of  men,  but  when  the  time 
and  the  opportunity  arrived  in  which  to  aid  the 
struggling  birth  of  the  eternal  bliss,  the  whole  strength 
of  his  being  responded  to  the  call.  And  now,  having 
felt  a  thread  vibrate,  like  a  sacred  spider  he  sat  in  the 
centre  of  his  web  of  love,  and  waited  and  watched. 
In  proportion  as  the  love  is  pure,  and  only  in  propor- 


,    372  PAUL  FADER. 

tion  to  that,  can  such  be  a  pure  and  real  calling.  The 
least  speck  of  self  will  defile  it— a  little  more  may  ruin  its 
most  hopeful  effort. 

Two  days  after,  he  heard,  from  some  of  the  boys 
hurrying  to  the  pond,  that  Mrs.  Faber  was  missing.  He 
followed  them,  and  from  a  spot  beyond  the  house, 
looking  down  upon  the  lake,  watched  their  proceedings. 
He  saw  them  find  her  bonnet — a  result  which  left  him 
room  to  doubt.  Almost  the  next  moment,  a  wavering 
film  of  blue  smoke  rising  from  the  Old  House,  caught 
his  eye.  It  did  not  surprise  him,  for  he  knew  Dorothy 
Drake  was  in  the  habit  of  going  there— knew  also  by 
her  face  for  what  she  went :  accustomed  to  seek  solitude 
himself,  he  knew  the  relations  of  it.  Very  little  had  passed 
between  them.  Sometimes  two  persons  are  like  two 
drops  running  alongside  of  each  other  down  a  window- 
pane  :  one  marvels  how  it  is  they  can  so  long  escape 
running  together.  Persons  fit  to  be  bosom  friends,  will 
meet  and  part  for  years,  and  never  say  much  beyond 
good  morning  and  good  night. 

But  he  bethought  him  that  he  had  not  before  known 
her  light  a  fire,  and  the  day  certainly  was  not  a  cold  one. 
Again,  how  was  it  that,  with  the  cries  of  the  boys  in  her 
ears,  searching  for  a  sight  of  the  body  in  her  very  garden, 
she  had  never  come  from  the  house,  or  even  looked  from 
a  window  ?  Then  it  came  to  his  mind  what  a  place  for 
concealment  the  Old  House  was  :  he  knew  every  corner 
of  it ;  and  thus  he  arrived  at  what  was  almost  the  con- 
viction that  Mrs.  Faber  was  there,  ^^'hen  a  day  or  two 
had  passed,  he  was  satisfied  that,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  she  Avas  there  for  refuge.  The  reason  must  be  a 
good  one,  else  Dorothy  would  not  be  aiding — and  it 
must  of  course  have  to  do  with  her  husband. 

He  next  noted  how,  for  some  time,  Dorothy  never 
went  through  his  gate,  although  he  saw  reason  to  believe 
she  went  to  the  Old  House  every  day.  After  a  while, 
however,  she  went  through  it  every  day.  They  always 
exchanged  a  fev/  words  as  she  passed,  and  he  saw  plainly 


ANOTHER  MIND.  373 

enough  that  she  carried  a  secret.  By  and  by  he  began 
to  see  the  hover  of  words  unuttcred  about  her  moutli : 
she  wished  to  speak  about  something,  but  could  not  quite 
make  up  her  mind  to  it.  He  would  sometimes  meet  her 
look  with  the  corresponding  look  of  "  Well,  what  is  it?'' 
but  thereupon  she  would  invariably  seem  to  change  her 
mind,  would  bid  him  good  morning,  and  pass  on. 


CHAPTER    XL. 


A    DESOLATION. 


^HEN  Faber  at  length  returned  to  Glaston, 
his  friends  were  shocked  at  his  appear- 
ance. Either  the  hand  of  the  Lord,  or 
the  hand  of  crushing  chance,  had  been 
heavy  upon  him.  A  pale,  haggard,  worn, 
enfeebled  man,  with  an  eye  of  suffering, 
and  a  look  that  shrunk  from  question,  he  repaired  to 
his  desolate  house.  In  the  regard  of  his  fellow- 
townsmen  he  was  as  Job  appeared  to  the  eyes  of  his 
friends ;  and  some  of  them,  who  knew  no  more  of 
religion  than  the  sound  of  its  name,  pitied  him  that  he  had 
not  the  comfort  of  it.  All  Glaston  \yas  tender  to  him.  He 
walked  feebly,  seldom  showed  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  and 
then  only  from  kindness,  never  from  pleasure.  His  face 
was  now  almost  as  white  as  that  of  his  lost  Juliet.  His 
brother  doctors  behaved  with  brotherly  truth.  They  had 
attended  to  all  his  patients,  poor  as  well  as  rich,  and  now 
insisted  tliat  he  sliould  resume  his  labours  gradually, 
while  they  fulfilled  his  lack.  So  at  first  he  visited  only 
his  patients  in  the  town,  for  lie  was  unable  to  ride  ; 
and  his  grand  old  horse.  Ruber,  in  Avhom  he  trusted,  and 
whom  he  would  have  ventured  sooner  to  mount  than 
Niger,  was  gone  !     For  weeks  he  looked  like  a  man  of 


A  DESOLATIOiV. 


375 


fifty;  and  althougli  by  degrees  the  restorative  influences 
of  work  began  to  tell  upon  him,  he  never  recovered  the 
look  of  his  years.  Nobody  tried  to  comfort  him.  Few 
dared,  for  \-ery  reverence,  speak  to  the  man  who  carried 
in  him  such  an  awful  sorrow.  Who  would  be  so  heartless 
as  counsel  him  to  forget  it  ?  and  what  other  counsel 
was  there  for  one  who  refused  like  him  ?  Who  could 
have  brought  himself  to  say  to  him — "  There  is  loveliness 
yet  left,  and  within  thy  reach :  take  the  good,  &c.  ; 
forget  the  nothing  that  has  been,  in  the  something  that 
may  yet  for  a  while  avoid  being  nothing  too  ;  comfort 
thy  heart  with  a  fresh  love  :  the  time  will  come  to  forget 
both  in  the  everlasting  tomb  of  the  ancient  darkness"  ? 
Few  men  would  consent  to  be  comforted  in  accordance 
with  their  professed  theories  of  life ;  and  more  than  most 
would  Faber,  at  this  period  of  his  suffering,  have  scorned 
such  truth  for  comfort.  As  it  was,  men  gave  him  a 
squeeze  of  the  hand,  and  women  a  tearful  look  ;  but  from 
their  sympathy  he  derived  no  faintest  pleasure,  for  he  knew 
he  deserved  nothing  that  came  from  heart  of  tenderness. 
Not  that  he  had  begun  to  condemn  himself  for  his  hard- 
ness to  the  woman  who,  whatever  her  fault,  yet  honoured 
him  by  confessing  it,  or  to  bemoan  her  hard  fate  to  whom 
a  man  had  not  been  a  hiding-place  from  the  wind,  a 
covert  from  the  tempest  of  life,  a  shadow-shelter  from  the 
scorching  of  her  own  sin.  As  he  recovered  from  the 
double  shock,  and,  his  strength  slowly  returning,  his  work 
increased,  bringing  him  again  into  the  run  of  common  life, 
his  sense  of  desolation  increased.  As  his  head  ached  less, 
his  heart  ached  the  more,  nor  did  the  help  he  ministered  to 
his  fellows  any  longer  return  in  comfort  to  himself  Hither- 
to his  regard  of  annihilation  had  been  as  of  sometliing  so 
distant,  that  its  approach  was  relatively  by  degrees  innni- 
tesimal,  but  as  the  days  went  on,  he  began  to  derive  a 
gray  consolation  from  the  thought  that  he  must  at  lengtli 
cease  to  exist.  He  would  not  hasten  the  end ;  he  would 
be  brave,  and  see  the  play  out.  Only  it  Avas  all  so  dull ! 
If  a  woman  looked  kindly  at  him,  if  for  a  moment  it  gave 


Zl6  PAUL  FABER. 

him  pleasure,  tlie  next  it  was  as  an  arrow  in  his  heart. 
What  a  white  splendour  was  vanished  from  his  life ! 
Where  were  those  great  liquid  orbs  of  radiating  darkness  ? 
— where  was  that  smile  with  its  ilash  of  whiteness  ?— that 
form  so  lithe,  yet  so  stately,  so  perfect  in  modulation  ? — 
A\here  were  those  hands  and  feet  that  spoke  without  words, 
and  took  their  own   way  with   his  heart  ? — those  arms 

?     His  being  shook  to  its  centre.     One  word  of 

tenderness  and  forgiveness,  and  all  would  have  been 
his  own  still  ! — But  on  what  terms  ? — Of  dishonour  and 
falsehood,  he  said,  and  grew  hard  again.  He  was  sorry 
for  Juliet,  but  she  and  not  he  was  to  blame.  She  had 
ruined  his  life,  as  well  as  lost  her  own,  and  his  was  the 
harder  case,  for  he  had  to  live  on,  and  she  had  taken 
with  her  all  the  good  the  earth  had  for  him.  She  had 
been  the  sole  object  of  his  worship  ;  he  had  acknow- 
ledged no  other  divinity;  she  was  the  loveliness  of  all 
things  ;  but  she  had  dropped  from  her  pedestal,  and 
gone  down  in  the  sea  that  flows  waveless  and  windless 
and  silent  around  the  worlds.  Alas  for  life  !  But  he 
would  bear  on  till  its  winter  came.  The  years  would  be 
tedious  as  hell ;  but  nothing  that  ends  can  be  other 
than  brief  Not  willingly  even  yet  would  he  fail  of  what 
work  was  his.  The  world  was  bad  enough  ;  he  would 
not  leave  it  worse  than  he  had  found  it.  He  would  work 
life  out,  that  he  might  die  in  peace.  Fame  truly  there 
was  none  for  him,  but  his  work  would  not  be  lost.  The 
wretched  race  of  men  would  suffer  a  little  the  less  that 
he  had  lived.  Poor  comfort,  if  more  of  health  but 
ministered  to  the  potency  of  such  anguish  as  now  bur- 
rowed in  him  like  a  mole  of  fire  ! 

There  had  been  a  time  when,  in  the  young  pathos  of 
things,  he  would  shut  his  eyes  that  the  sunset  might  not 
wound  him  so  sore  ;  now,  as  he  rode  homewards  into 
the  fronting  sunset,  he  felt  nothing,  cared  for  nothing, 
only  ached  with  a  dull  aching  througli  body  and  soul. 
He  was  still  kind  to  his  fellows,  but  the  glow  of  the 


A  DESOLATION  377 

kindness  had  vanished,  and  truest  thanks  hardly  waked 
the  shghtest  thrill. 

He  very  seldom  saw  Wingfold  now,  and  less  than  ever 
was  inclined  towards  his  doctrine  ;  for  had  it  not  been 
through  him  this  misery  had  come  upon  him?  Had 
he  not,  with  the  confidence  of  all  the  sciences,  uttered 
the  merest  dreams  as  eternal  truths  ?  How  could  poor 
Juliet  help  supposing  he  knew  the  things  he  asserted, 
and  taking  them  for  facts  ?  The  human  heart  was  the 
one  unreasonable  thing,  sighing  ever  after  that  which  is 
not !  Sprung  from  nothing,  it  yet  desired  a  creator  ! — 
at  least  some  hearts  did  so  :  his  did  not ;  he  knew  better ! 

There  was  of  course  no  reason  in  this.  Was  the  thing 
not  a  fact  which  she  had  confessed?  was  he  not  a 
worshipper  of  fact  ?  did  he  not  even  dignify  it  witli  the 
name  of  truth  ?  and  could  he  wish  his  wife  had  kept  the 
miserable  fact  to  herself,  leaving  him  to  his  fools'-paradise 
of  ignorance  ?  Why  then  should  he  feel  resentment 
against  the  man  whose  teaching  had  only  compelled  her 
to  confess  it  ? — But  the  thing  was  out  of  the  realm  of 
science  and  its  logic. 

Sometimes  he  grew  fierce,  and  determined  to  face 
every  possible  agony,  endure  all,  and  dominate  his 
misery ;  but  ever  and  anon  it  returned  with  its  own 
disabling  sickness,  bringing  the  sense  of  the  unendurable. 
Of  his  own  motion  he  saw  nobody  except  in  his  practice. 
He  studied  hard,  even  to  weariness  and  faintncss,  con- 
trived strange  experiments,  and  caught,  he  believed, 
curious  peeps  into  the  house  of  life.  Upon  them  he 
founded  theories  as  wild  as  they  were  daring,  and  hob- 
nobbed with  Death  and  CorruiUion.  But  life  is  at  the  will 
of  the  Maker,  and  misery  cannot  kill  it.  By  degrees 
a  little  composure  returned,  and  the  old  keen  look  began 
fo  revive.  But  there  were  wrinkles  on  the  forehead 
that  had  hitherto  been  smooth  as  ivory ;  furrows,  the  dry 
water-courses  of  sorrow,  appeared  on  his  cheeks,  and 
a  few  silvery  threads  glinted  in  his  hair.     His  step  was 


378  PAUL  FARER. 

heavy,  and  his  voice  had  lost  its  ring — the  cheer  was  out 
of  it.  He  no  more  obtruded  his  oi^inions,  for,  as  I  have 
said,  he  slirunk  from  all  interchange,  but  he  held  to  them 
as  firmly  as  ever.  He  was  not  to  be  driven  from  the 
truth  by  suffering  !  But  there  was  a  certain  strange  move- 
ment in  his  spirit  of  which  he  took  no  note — a  feeling 
of  resentment,  as  if  against  a  God  that  yet  did  not  exist, 
for  making  upon  him  the  experiment  whether  he  might 
not,  by  oppression,  be  driven  to  believe  in  him. 

When  Dorothy  knev/  of  his  return,  and  his  ways  began 
to  show  that  he  intended  living  just  as  before  his  marriage, 
the  time  seemed  come  for  telling  Juliet  of  the  accident 
and  his  recovery  from  the  effects  of  it.  Site  went  into 
violent  liysterics,  and  the  moment  she  could  speak,  blamed 
Dorothy  bitterly  for  not  having  told  her  before. 

"  It  is  all  your  lying  religion  !"  she  said. 

"Your  behaviour,  Juliet,"  answered  Dorothy,  putting 
on  the  matron,  and  speaking  with  authority,  "  shows 
plainly  how  right  I  was.  You  were  not  to  be  trusted, 
and  I  knew  it.  Had  I  told  you,  you  would  have  rusheel 
to  him,  and  been  anything  but  welcome.  He  would  not 
even  have  known  you ;  and  you  would  have  been  two  on  the 
doctor's  hands.  You  would  have  made  everything  public, 
and  when  your  husband  came  to  himself,  would  probably 
have  been  the  death  of  him  after  all." 

"He  may  have  begun  to  think  more  kindly  of  me  by 
that  time,"  said  Juliet,  humbled  a  little. 

"We  must  not  act  ow.viay-Jiaves"  answered  Dorotliy. 

"  You  say  he  looks  Ai^retched  now,"  suggested  Juliet. 

"  And  well  lie  may,  after  concussion  of  the  brain,  not 
to  mention  what  preceded  it,"  said  Dorothy. 

She  had  come  to  see  that  Juliet  required  very  plain 
s])eaking.  She  had  so  long  practised  the  art  of  deceiving 
herself  that  she  was  skilful  at  it.  Indeed,  but  for  the 
fault  she  had  committed,  she  would  all  her  life  long  have 
been  given  to  petting  and  pitying,  justifying  and  approv- 
ing of  herself.  One  cannot  help  sometimes  feeling  that 
the  only  chance  for  certain  persons  is  to  commit  some  fault 


A  DESOLATION.  379 

sufificient  to  shame  them  out  of  the  self-satisfaction  in  which 
they  burrow.  A  fault,  if  only  it  be  great  and  plain  enouL^h 
to  exceed  their  powers  of  self-justification,  may  then  be, 
of  Cod's  mercy,  not  indeed  an  angel  of  light  to  draw  them, 
but  verily  a  goblin  of  darkness  to  terrify  them  out  of 
themselves.  For  the  powers  of  darkness  are  his  servants 
also,  though  incapable  of  knowing  it :  he  who  is  first 
and  last  can,  even  of  those  that  love  the  lie,  make  slaves 
of  the  truth.  And  they  who  will  not  be  sons  shall  be 
sla-.-es,  let  them  rant  and  wear  crowns  as  they  please  in  the 
slaves'  quarters. 

"  You  must  not  expect  him  to  get  over  such  a  shock 
all  at  once,"  .said  Dorothy.  " — It  may  be,"  she  contin- 
ued, "  that  you  were  wrong  in  running  away  from  him. 
1  do  not  pretend  to  judge  between  you,  but  perhaps, 
after  the  injury  you  had  done  him,  you  ought  to  have  left 
it  with  him  to  say  what  you  were  to  do  next.  I'y  taking 
it  in  your  own  hands,  you  may  have  only  added  to  the 
wrong." 

"And  who  helped  me?"  returned  Juliet,  in  a  tone  of 
deep  reproach. 

"  Helped  you  to  run  from  him,  Juliet ! — Really,  if  you 
were  in  the  habit  of  behaving  to  your  husband  as  you  do 

to  me !"    She  checked  herself,  and  resumed  calmly — 

"  You  forget  the  facts  of  the  case,  dear.  So  far  from 
helping  you  to  run  from  him,  I  stopped  you  from  running 
so  far  that  neither  could  he  find  you,  nor  you  return  to 
him  again.  But  now  we  must  make  the  best  of  it  by 
waiting.  We  must  find  out  whether  he  wants  you  again, 
or  your  absence  is  a  relief  to  him.  If  I  had  been  a  man, 
1  should  have  been  just  as  wild  as  he." 

She  had  seen  in  Juliet  some  sigiis  that  self  abhorrent  c 
was  waning,  and  self-pity  reviving,  and  she  would  con- 
nive at  no  unreality  in  her  treaimcnt  of  liL'rself.  She 
was  one  thing  when  bowed  to  the  earth  in  misery  and 
shame,  and  quite  another  if  thinking  herself  hardly  used 
on  all  sides. 

It  was  a  strange  position  for  a  young  woman  to  be  in 


SSo  PAUL  FAEER. 

— that  of  watcher  over  the  marriage  relations  of  two 
persons,  to  neither  of  whom  could  she  be  a  friend  other- 
wise than  ab  extra.  Ere  long  she  began  almost  to 
despair.  Day  after  day  she  heard  or  saw  that  Faber  con- 
tinued sunk  in  himself,  and  how  things  were  going  there 
she  could  not  tell.  Was  he  thinking  about  the  wife  he 
had  lostj  or  brooding  over  the  wrong  she  had  done  him? 
There  was  the  question — and  who  was  to  answer  it  ? 
At  the  same  time  she  was  all  but  certain,  that,  things 
being  as  they  were,  any  reconciliation  that  might  be 
effected  would  owe  itself  merely  to  the  raising,  as  it  were, 
of  the  dead,  and  the  root  of  bitterness  would  soon  trouble 
them  afresh.  If  but  one  of  them  had  begun  the  task  of 
self-conquest,  there  would  be  hope  for  both.  But  of 
such  a  change  there  Avas  in  Juliet  as  yet  no  sign. 

Dorothy  then  understood  her  position — it  was  wonder- 
ful with  what  clearness,  but  solitary  necessity  is  a  hot  sun 
to  ripen.  What  was  she  to  do  ?  To  what  quarter — could 
she  to  any  quarter  look  for  help  ?  Naturally  she  thought 
first  of  Mr.  Wingfold.  But  she  did  not  feel  at  all  sure  that 
he  would  consent  to  receive  a  communication  upon  any 
other  understanding  than  that  he  was  to  act  in  the  matter 
as  he  might  see  best ;  and  would  it  be  right  to  acquaint 
him  with  the  secret  of  another  when  possibly  he  might 
feel  bound  to  reveal  it  ?  Besides,  if  he  kept  it  hid,  the 
result  might  be  blame  to  him  ;  and  blame,  she  reasoned, 
although  a  small  matter  in  regard  to  one  like  herself, 
might  in  respect  of  a  man  in  the  curate's  position  involve 
serious  consequences.  While  she  thus  reflected,  it  came 
into  her  mind  with  what  enthusiasm  she  had  heard  him 
speak  of  Mr.  Polwarth,  attributing  to  him  the  beginnings 
of  all  enlightenment  he  had  himself  ever  received.  With- 
out this  testimony,  she  would  not  have  once  thought  of 
him.  Indeed  she  had  been  more  than  a  little  doubtful 
of  him,  for  she  had  never  felt  attracted  to  him,  and  from 
her  knowledge  of  the  unhealthy  religious  atmosphere  of 
the  chapel,  had  got  unreasonably  suspicious  of  cant.  She 
had  not  had  experience  enough  to  distinguish  with  any 


A  DESOLATION.  38 1 

certainty  the  speech  tliat  comes  from  the  head  and 
that  whicli  comes  out  of  the  fuhiess  of  the  heart.  A  man 
must  talk  out  of  that  which  is  in  him  ;  his  well  must 
give  out  the  water  of  its  own  spring  ;  but  what  seems  a 
well  may  be  only  a  cistern,  and  the  water  by  no  means 
living  water.  What  she  had  once  or  twice  heard  him  say, 
had  rather  repelled  than  drawn  her ;  but  Dorothy  had 
faith,  and  Mr.  Wingfold  had  spoken.  Might  she  tell  him  ? 
Ought  she  not  to  seek  his  help  ?  Would  he  keep  the 
secret?  Could  he  help  if  he  would?  Was  he  indeed  as 
wise  as  they  said  ? 

In  the  meantime,  little  as  she  thought  it,  Polwarth  had 
been  awaiting  a  communication  from  her ;  but  when  he 
found  that  the  question  whose  presence  was  so  visible  in 
her  whole  bearing,  neither  died  nor  bore  fruit,  he  began 
to  think  whether  he  might  not  help  her  to  speak.  The 
next  time,  therefore,  that  he  opened  the  gate  to  her,  he 
held  in  his  hand  a  little  bud  he  had  just  broken  from  a 
monthly  rose.  It  was  a  hard  little  button,  upon  which 
the  green  leaves  of  its  calyx  clung  as  if  choking  it. 

"  \Vhat  is  the  matter  with  this  bud,  do  you  think.  Miss 
Drake  ?"  he  asked. 

"That  you  have  plucked  it,"  she  answered  sharply, 
throwing  a  suspicious  glance  in  his  face. 

"  No  ;  that  cannot  be  it,"  he  answered  with  a  quiet 
smile  of  intelligence.  "  It  has  been  just  as  you  see  it  for 
the  last  three  days.  I  only  plucked  it  the  moment  I 
saw  you  coming." 

"  Then  the  frost  has  caught  It." 

"The  frost  /las  caught  it,"  he  answered;  "but  I  am 
not  quite  sure  whether  the  cause  of  its  death  was  not 
rather  its  own  life  than  the  frost." 

"I  don't  see  what  you  mean  by  that,  Mr.  Polwarth," 
said  Dorothy,  doubtfully,  and  with  a  feeling  of  discomfort. 

"  I  admit  it  sounds  paradoxical,"  returned  the  little 
man.  "What  I  mean  is,  that  the  struggle  of  the  life  in 
it  to  unfold  itself,  rather  than  anything  else,  was  the 
cause  of  its  death." 


382  PAUL  FABER. 

"  But  the  frost  was  the  cause  of  its  not  being  able  to 
unfold  itself,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  That  I  admit,"  said  Pohvarth  ;  "and  perhaps  a  weaker 
life  in  the  flower  would  have  yielded  sooner.  I  may 
have  carried  too  far  an  analogy  I  was  seeking  to  establish 
between  it  and  the  human  heart,  in  which  repression  is 
so  much  more  dimgerous  than  mere  oppression.  Many 
a  heart  has  withered  like  my  poor  little  bud,  because  it 
did  not  know  its  friend  when  it  saw  him." 

Dorothy  was  frightened.  He  knew  something  !  Or 
did  he  only  suspect  ?  Perhaps  he  was  merely  guessing  at 
her  religious  troubles,  wanting  to  help  her.  She  must 
answ^er  carefully. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  right,  Mr.  Polwarth,"  slie 
said  ;  "but  there  are  some  things  it  is  not  wise,  and  other 
things  it  would  not  be  right  to  speak  about." 

"  Quite  true,"  he  answered.  "  I  did  not  think  it  wise 
to  say  anything  sooner,  but  now  I  venture  to  ask  how 
the  poor  lady  does." 

"  What  lady  ?"  returned  Dorothy,  dreadfully  startled, 
and  turning  white. 

"  Mrs.  Faber,"  answered  Pohvarth,  with  the  utmost 
calmness.     "Is  she  not  still  at  the  Old  House  ?" 

"  Is  it  known,  then  ?"  faltered  Dorotliy. 

"  To  nobody  but  myself,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,"  replied 
the  gatekeeper. 

"And  how  long  have  you  known  it  ?' 

"  From  the  very  day  of  her  disappearance,  I  may 
say." 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  sooner  ?"  said  Dorothy, 
feeling  aggrieved,  though  she  would  have  found  it  hard  to 
ihow  wherein  lay  the  injury. 

"  For  more  reasons  than  one,"  answered  Pohvarth  ; 
"but  one  will  be  enough:  you  did  not  trust  me.  It 
•was  well  therefore  to  let  you  understand  I  could  keep  a 
secret.  I  let  you  know  now  only  because  I  see  you  are 
troubled  about  her.  I  fear  you  have  not  got  her  to  take 
any  comfort,  poor  lady  1" 


J  Desolation.  383 

l^orothy  stood  silent,  gazing  down  with  big  frightened 
eyes  at  the  strange  creaiure  who  looked  steadfastly  up 
at  her  from  under  what  seemed  a  huge  hat — for  his  head 
was  as  large  as  that  of  a  tall  man.  He  seemed  to  be 
reading  her  very  thoughts. 

"  I  can  trust  you.  Miss  Drake,"  he  resumed.  "  If  I  did 
not,  I  should  have  at  once  acquainted  the  authorities  with 
my  suspicions  ;  for,  )'0U  will  observe,  you  are  hiding 
from  a  community  a  fact  which  it  has  a  right  to  knoN/. 
But  I  have  faith  enough  in  you  to  believe  that  30U  are 
only  waiting  a  fit  time,  and  have  good  reasons  for  what 
3'ou  do.  If  I  can  give  you  any  help,  I  am  at  your 
service." 

He  took  off  his  big  hat,  and  turned  away  into  the 
house. 

Dorothy  stood  fixed  for  a  moment  or  two  longer,  then 
walked  slowly  away,  with  her  e\'cs  on  the  ground.  Before 
she  reached  the  Old  House,  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  tell  Polwarth  as  much  as  she  could  without  betraying 
Juliet's  secret,  and  to  ask  him  to  talk  to  her,  for  which 
she  would  contrive  an  opportunity. 

For  some  time  she  had  been  growing  more  anxious 
every  day.  No  sign  of  change  showed  in  any  quarter  ; 
no  way  opened  through  the  difficulties  that  surrounded 
them,  while  these  were  greath'  added  to  by  the  likelihood 
appearing  that  another  life  was  on  its  way  into  them. 
^Vhat  was  to  be  done  ?  How  was  she  in  her  ignorance 
so  to  guard  the  hopeless  wife,  that  motherhood  might  do 
something  to  console  her?  She  had  two  lives  upon 
her  hands,  and  did  indeed  want  counsel.  The  man  who 
knew  their  secret  already — the  minor  prophet,  she  had 
heard  the  curate  call  him — might  at  least  help  her  to  the 
next  step  she  must  take. 

Juliet's  mental  condition  Avas  not  at  all  encouraging. 
She  was  often  ailing  and  peevish,  behaving  as  if  she 
owed  Dorothy  grudge  instead  of  graiitude.  And  indeed 
to  herself  Dorothy  would  remark  that  if  nothing  more 
came  out  of  it  than  seemed  likely  now,  Juliet  would  be 


3S4  rAUL  FABEB. 

under  no  very  ponderous  obligation  to  her.  She  found 
it  more  and  more  difficult  to  interest  her  in  anything. 
After  Othello  she  did  not  read  another  play.  Nothing 
pleased  her  but  to  talk  about  her  husband.  If  Dorothy 
had  seen  him,  Juliet  had  endless  questions  to  put  to 
her  about  him  ;  and  when  she  had  answered  as  many  of 
them  as  she  could,  she  would  put  them  all  over  again 
afresh.  On  one  occasion  when  Dorothy  could  not  say 
she  believed  he  was,  when  she  saw  him,  thinking  about 
his  wife,  Juliet  went  into  hysterics.  She  was  growing 
so  unmanageable  that  if  Dorothy  had  not  partially 
opened  her  mind  to  Polwarth,  she  must  at  last  have 
been  compelled  to  give  her  up.  The  charge  was  wearing 
her  out ;  her  strength  was  giving  way,  and  her  temper 
growing  so  irritable  that  she  was  ashamed  of  herself — 
and  all  without  any  good  to  Juliet.  Twice  she  hinted 
at  letting  her  husband  know  where  she  Avas,  but  Juliet, 
although,  on  both  occasions,  she  had  a  moment  before 
been  talking  as  if  Dorothy  alone  prevented  her  from 
returning  to  him,  fell  on  her  knees  in  wild  distress,  and 
entreated  her  to  bear  with  her.  At  the  smallest  approach 
of  the  idea  towards  actuality,  the  recollection  rushed 
scorching  back — of  howshe  had  implored  him,  howshe  had 
humbled  herself  soul  and  body  before  him,  how  he  had 
turned  from  her  with  loathing,  would  not  put  forth  a  hand 
to  lift  her  from  destruction  and  restore  her  to  peace,  had 
left  her  naked  on  the  floor,  nor  once  returned  "  to  ask 
the  spotted  princess  how  she  fares" — and  she  slirunk 
with  agony  from  any  real  thought  of  again  supplicating 
his  mercy. 

Presently  another  difficulty  began  to  show  in  the  near 
distance  :  Mr.  Drake,  having  made  up  his  mind  as  to  the 
alterations  he  would  have  eftected,  had  begun  to  think 
there  was  no  occasion  to  put  off  till  the  spring,  and  talked 
of  commencing  work  in  the  house  at  no  distant  day. 
Dorothy  therefore  i)roposed  to  Juliet  that,  as  it  was 
impossible  to  conceal  her  there  much  longer,  she  should 
go   to   some   distant   part   of   the   country,   where   she 


A  DESOLAlIOiV.  3S5 

would  contrive  to  follow  her.  But  the  thought  of  moving 
farther  from  her  husband,  whose  nearness,  though  s'lo 
dared  not  seek  him,  seemed  her  only  safety,  was  friglr.ful 
to  Juliet.  The  wasting  anxiety  she  caused  Dorothy 
did  not  occur  to  her.  Sorrow  is  not  selfish,  but  many 
persons  are  in  sorrow  entirely  selfish.  It  makes  thcni 
so  important  in  their  own  eyes,  that  they  seem  to  have  a 
claim  upon  all  that  people  can  do  for  them. 

To  the  extent  therefore,  of  what  she  might  herself  have 
known  without  Juhet's  confession,  Dorothy,  driven  to 
her  wits'  end,  resolved  to  open  the  matter  to  the  gate- 
keeper ;  and  accordingly,  one  evening  on  her  way  home, 
called  at  the  lodge,  and  told  Polwarth  where  and  in 
what  condition  she  had  found  Mrs.  Faber,  and  what  she 
had  done  with  her  ;  that  she  did  not  think  it  the  part 
of  a  friend  to  advise  her  return  to  her  husband  at 
present ;  that  she  would  not  herself  hear  of  returning  ; 
that  she  had  no  comfort,  and  her  life  was  a  burden  to 
her ;  and  that  she  could  not  possibly  keep  her  concealed 
much  longer,  and  did  not  know  what  next  to  do. 

Polwarth  answered  only  that  he  must  make  the 
acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Faber.  If  that  could  be  effected, 
he  believed  he  should  be  able  to  help  them  out  of  their 
difficulties.  IJetwcen  them,  therefore,  they  must  arrange 
a  plan  for  his  meeting  her. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 


THE     OLD     GARDEN. 


HE  next  morning,  Juliet,  wall^ing  listlessly 
up  and  down  the  garden,  turned  the  corner 
of  a  yew  hedge,  and  came  suddenly  upon 
a  figure  that  might  well  have  appeared 
one  of  the  kobolds  of  German  legend. 
He  was  digging  slowly  but  steadily,  croon- 
ing a  strange  song — so  low  that,  until  she  saw  him  she 
did  not  hear  him. 

She  started  back  in  dismay.  The  kobold  neither 
raised  his  head  nor  showed  other  sign  than  the  ceasing 
of  his  song  that  he  was  aware  of  her  presence.  Slowly 
and  steadily  he  went  on  with  his  work.  He  was  trench- 
ing the  ground  deep,  still  throwing  the  earth  from  the 
bottom  to  the  top.  Juliet,  concluding  he  was  deaf, 
and  the  ceasing  of  his  song  accidental,  turned  softly, 
and  would  have  retreated.  But  Polwarth,  so  far  from 
being  deaf,  heard  better  than  most  people.  His  senses, 
indeed,  had  been  sharpened  by  his  infirmities — all  but 
those  of  taste  and  smell,  which  were  fitful,  now  dull  and 
now  exquisitely  keen.  At  the  first  movement  breaking 
the  stillness  into  which  consternation  had  cast  her,  he 
spoke. 

"  Can  you  guess  what  I  am  doing,  Mrs.   Faber?"  he 


THE  OLD  GARDEN.  387 

said,  throwing  up  a  spadeful  and  a  glance  together,  like  a 
man  who  could  spare  no  time  from  his  work. 

Juliet's  heart  got  in  the  way,  and  she  could  not  answer 
him.  She  felt  much  as  a  ghost,  wandering  through  a 
house,  might  feel,  if  suddenly  addressed  by  the  name 
she  had  borne  in  the  old  days,  while  yet  she  was  clothed 
in  the  garments  of  the  flesh.  Could  it  be  that  thjs  man 
led  such  a  retired  life  that,  although  living  so  near  Glas- 
ton,  and  seeing  so  many  at  his  gate,  he  had  yet  never 
heard  that  she  had  passed  from  the  ken  of  the  living  ? 
Or  could  it  be  that  Dorothy  had  betrayed  her?  She 
stood  quaking.  The  situation  was  strange.  Before  her 
was  a  man  who  did  not  seem  to  know  that  what  he 
knew  concerning  her  was  a  secret  from  all  the  world 
besides  !  And  with  that  she  had  a  sudden  insight  into 
the  consequence  of  the  fact  of  her  existence  coming  to 
her  husband's  knowledge  :  would  it  not  add  to  his  con- 
tempt and  scorn  to  know  that  she  was  not  even  dead  ? 
Would  he  not  at  once  conclude  that  she  had  been 
contriving  to  work  on  his  feelings,  that  she  had  been 
speculating  on  his  repentance,  counting  upon  and  await- 
ing such  a  return  of  his  old  fondness,  as  would  make 
him  forget  all  her  faults,  and  prepare  him  to  receive 
her  again  with  delight  ? — But  she  must  answer  the  crea- 
ture !  Ill  could  she  afford  to  offend  him !  But  what 
was  she  to  say  ?  She  had  utterly  forgotten  what  he 
had  said  to  her.  She  stood  staring  at  him,  unable  to 
speak.  It  was  but  for  a  few  moments,  but  Uiey  were 
long  as  minutes.  And  as  she  gazed,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  strange  being  in  the  trench  had  dug  his  way  up 
from  the  lower  parts  of  the  earth,  bringing  her  secret  with 
him,  and  come  to  ask  her  questions.  What  an  earthy 
yet  unearthly  look  he  had  !  Almost  for  the  moment 
she  believed  the  ancient  rumours  of  other  races 
than  those  of  mankind,  that  shared  the  earth  withthem, 
but  led  such  differently  conditioned  lives,  that,  in  the 
course  of  ages.,  only  a  scanty  few  of  the  unblending 
cc  2 


388  PAUL  FABER. 

natures  crossed  each  other's  path,  to  stand  astare  in 
mutual  astonishment. 

Pohvarth  went  on  digging,  nor  once  looked  up. 
After  a  httle  while  he  resumed,  in  the  most  natural  wa}', 
speaking  as  if  he  had  known  her  well : 

"  Mr.  Drake  and  I  were  talking,  some  weeks  ago, 
about  a  certain  curious  litde  old-fashioned  flower  in  my 
garden  at  the  back  of  the  lodge.  He  asked  m.e  if  I 
could  spare  him  a  root  of  it.  I  told  him  I  could  spare 
him  anything  he  would  like  to  have,  but  that  I  would 
gladly  give  him  every  flower  in  my  garden,  roots  and  all, 
if  he  would  but  let  me  dig  three  yards  square  in  his 
garden  at  the  Old  House,  and  have  all  that  came  up  of 
itself  for  a  year." 

He  paused  again.  Juliet  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 
He  dug  rather  feebly  for  a  gnome,  with  panting 
asthmatic  breath. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  not  aware,  ma'am,"  he  began  again, 
and  ceasing  his  labour  stood  up  leaning  on  the  spade,  which 
was  nearly  as  high  as  himself,  "that  many  of  the  seeds 
which  fall  upon  the  ground,  and  do  not  grow,  yet,  strange 
to  tell,  retain  the  power  of  growth.  I  suspect  myself,  but 
have  not  had  opportunity  of  testing  the  conjecture,  that 
such  fall  in  their  pods,  or  shells,  and  that  before  these 
are  sufticiently  decayed  to  allow  the  sun  and  moisture 
and  air  to  reach  them,  they  have  got  covered  up  in 
the  soil  too  deep  for  those  same  influences.  They  say 
fishes  a  long  time  bedded  in  ice  will  come  to  life  again  : 
I  cannot  tell  about  that,  but  it  is  well  enough  kno^yn 
that  if  you  dig  deep  in  any  old  garden,  such  as  this, 
ancient,  perhaps  forgotten  flowers,  will  appear.  The 
fashion  has  changed,  they  have  been  neglected  or  up- 
rooted, but  all  the  time  their  life  is  hid  below.  And 
the  older  they  are,  the  nearer  perhaps  to  their  primary 
idea  !" 

By  this  time  she  was  far  more  composed,  though 
not  yet  had  she  made  up  her  mind  what  to  say,  or  how 
to  treat  the  dilemma  in  which  she  found  herself. 


THE  OLD  GARDEN.  3S9 

After  a  brief  pause  therefore,  he  resumed  again. 

"  I  don't  foncy,"  he  said,  with  a  low  asthmatic  laugh, 
"that  we  shall  have  many  forgotten  weeds  come  up. 
They  all,  I  suspect,  keep  pretty  well  in  the  sun.  IJut 
just  think  how  the  fierce  digging  of  the  crisis  to  which 
the  great  Husbandman  every  now  and  then  leads  a  nation, 
brings  back  to  the  surface  its  old  forgotten  flowers. 
What  virtues,  for  instance,  the  Revolution  brought  \.o 
light  as  even  yet  in  the  nature  of  the  corrupted  nobility 
of  France  !" 

"What  a  peculiar  goblin  it  is  !"  thought  Juliet,  begin- 
ning to  forget  herself  a  little  in  watching  and  listening  to 
the°strange  creature.  She  had  often  seen  him  before, 
but  had  alwa\s  turned  from  him  with  a  kind  of  S)mpa- 
thetic  shame  \  of  course  the  poor  creature  could  not  bear 
to  be  looked  at ;  he  must  know  himself  improper  ! 

"  I  have  sometimes  wondered,"  Polwarth  yet  again 
resumed,  "  v.'hether  the  troubles  without  end  that  some 
people  seem  born  to— I  do  not  mean  those  they  brhig 
upon  themselves — may  not  be  as  subsoil  ploughs,  tearing 
deep  into  the  family  mould,  that  the  seeds  of  the  lost 
virtues  of  their  race  may  in  them  be  once  more  brought 
within  reach  of  sun  and  air  and  dew.  It  would  be  a 
pleasant  hopeful  tliought  if  one  might  hold  it.  \Vould  it 
not,  ma'am ?' 

"It  would  indeed,"  answered  Juliet  with  a  sigh,  which 
rose  from  an  undefined  feeling  that  if  some  hidden  virtue 
would  come  up  in  her,  it  would  be  welcome.  How 
many  people  would  like  to  be  good,  if  only  the}'  might 
be  good  without  taking  trouble  about  it !  They  do  not 
like  goodness  well  enough  to  hunger  and  thirst  after  it, 
or  to  sell  all  that  they  have  that  they  may  buy  it ;  they 
will  not  batter  at  the  gate  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;  but 
they  look  with  pleasure  on  this  or  that  aerial  castle  of 
righteousness,  and  tlnnk  it  would  be  rather  nice  to  hve 
in°it !  They  do  not  know  that  it  is  goodness  all  the  time 
their  very  being  is  pining  after,  and  that  they  ore  starving 
their  nature  of  its  necessary  food.     'J'hcn  Polwarth's  idea 


390  PAUL  FABER. 

turned  itself  round  in  Juliet's  mind,  and  grew  clearer, 
but  assumed  reference  to  weeds  only,  and  not  flowers. 
She  thought  how  that  fault  of  hers  had,  like  the  seed  of 
a  poison-plant,  been  buried  for  years,  unknown  to  one 
alive,  and  forgotten  almost  by  herself — so  diligently  for- 
gotten indeed,  that  it  seemed  to  have  gradually  slipped 
away  over  the  horizon  of  her  existence  ;  and  now  here 
it  Avas  at  the  surface  again  in  all  its  horror  and  old  reality! 
nor  that  merely,  for  already  it  had  blossomed  and  borne 
its  rightful  fruit  of  dismay — an  evil  pod,  filled  with  a 
sickening  juice,  and  swarming  with  gray  flies. — But  she 
must  speak,  and,  if  possible,  prevent  the  odd  creature 
from  going  and  publishing  in  Glaston  that  he  had  seen 
Mrs.  Faber,  and  she  was  at  the  Old  House. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  was  here  ?"  she  asked  abruptly. 
"  How  do  you  know  that  I  knew,  ma'am?"  returned 
Polwarth,  in   a   tone   which   took   from   the   words  all 
appearance  of  rudeness. 

"  You  were  not  in  the  least  surprised  to  see  me,"  she 
answered. 

"  A  man,"  returned  the  dwarf,  "  who  keeps  his  eyes 
open,  may  almost  cease  to  be  surprised  at  anything.  In 
my  time  I  have  seen  so  much  that  is  wonderful — in  fiict 
everything  seems  to  me  so  wonderful,  that  I  hardly  ex- 
pect to  be  surprised  pny  more." 

He  said  this,  desiring  to  provoke  conversation.  But 
Juliet  took  the  answer  for  an  evasive  one,  and  it 
strengthened  her  suspicion  of  Dorothy.  She  was 
getting  tired  of  her !  Then  there  was  only  one  thing 
left ! — The  minor  prophet  had  betaken  himself  again  to 
his  work,  delving  deeper,  and  throwing  slow  spadeful 
after  spadeful  to  the  surface. 

"  Miss  Drake  told  you  I  was  here  !"  said  Juliet. 
"  No,  indeed,  Mrs.  Faber.     No  one  told  me,"  answered 
Polwarth.      "  I  learned  it  for  myself.      I  could  hardly 
help  finding  it  out." 

"  Then — then — does  everybody  know  it  ?"  she  faltered, 
her  heart  sinking  witliin  her  at  the  thought. 


THE  OLD  GARDEN.  39i 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  so  far  as  I  know,  not  a  single  person 
is  aware  you  are  alive  except  Miss  Drake  and  myself.  I 
have  not  even  told  my  niece  who  lives  with  me,  and  who 
can  keep  a  secret  as  well  as  myself" 

Juliet  breathed  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

"Will  you  tell  me  why  you  have  kept  it  so  secret?" 
she  asked. 

"  Because  it  was  your  secret,  ma'am,  not  mine." 

"  But  you  were  under  no  obligation  to  keep  my 
secret." 

"  How  do  you  justify  such  a  frightful  statement  as  that, 
ma'am  ?" 

"  Why,  what  could  it  matter  to  you  ?" 

"  Everything." 

"  I  do  not  understand.  You  have  no  interest  m  me. 
You  could  have  no  inducement." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  had  the  strongest  inducement :  I 
saw  that  an  opportunity  might  come  of  serving  you." 

"  But  that  is  just  the  unintelligible  thing  to  me.  There 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  wish  to  serve  me  !"  said 
JuUet,  thinking  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  some  design. 

"There  you  mistake,  ma'am.  I  am  under  the  most 
absolute  .and  imperative  obligation  to  serve  you— the 
greatest  under  which  any  being  can  find  himself." 

"What  a  ridiculous,  crooked  litde  monster!"  said 
Juliet  to  herself.  But  she  began  the  same  moment  to 
think  whether  she  might  not  turn  the  creature's  devotion 
to  good  account.  She  might  at  all  events  insure  his 
silence. 

"Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  explain  yourself?' 
she  said,  now  also  interested  in  the  continuance  of  the 
conversation. 

"I  would  at  once,"  replied  Polwarth,  "had  I  sufficient 
ground  for  hoping  you  would  understand  my  explanation." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  particularly  stupid,"  she 
returned,  with  a  wan  smile. 

"  I  have  heard  to  the  contrary,"  said  Polwarth.  "  Yet  I 
cannot  help  greatly  doubting  whether  you  will  under- 


392  PAUL  FABER. 

Stand  what  I  am  now  going  to  tell  you.  For  I  will  tell  you 
— on  the  chance  :  I  have  no  secrets — that  is,  of  my  own. 
— I  am  one  of  those,  Mrs.  Faber,"  he  went  on  after  a 
moment's  pause,  but  his  voice  n-either  became  more 
solemn  in  tone,  nor  did  he  cease  his  digging,  although 
it  got  slower,  "who,  against  the  non-evidence  of  their 
senses,  believe  there  is  a  master  of  men,  the  one 
master,  a  right  perfect  man,  who  demands  of  them,  and 
lets  them  know  in  themselves  the  rectitude  of  the  demand, 
that  they  also  shall  be  right  and  true  men,  that  is, 
true  brothers  to  their  brothers  and  sisters  of  mankind. 
It  is  recorded  too,  and  I  believe  it,  that  this  master  said 
that  any  service  rendered  to  one  of  his  people  was  ren- 
dered to  himself  Therefore,  for  love  of  his  will,  even  if 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  you,  Mrs.  Faber,  I  should  feel 
bound  to  help  you.  As  you  cannct  believe  me  interested 
in  yourself,  I  must  tell  you  that  to  betray  your  secret  for 
the  satisfaction  of  a  love  of  gossip,  would  be  to  sin 
against  my  highest  joy,  against  my  own  hope,  against  the 
heart  of  God,  from  which  your  being  and  mine  draws  the 
life  of  its  every  moment." 

Juliet's  heart  seemed  to  turn  sick  at  the  thought  of  sucli 
a  creature  claiming  brotherhood  with  her.  That  it  gave 
ground  for  such  a  claim,  seemed  for  the  moment  an  irre- 
sistible argument  against  the  existence  of  a  God. 

In  her  countenance  Polwarth  read  at  once  that  he  had 
blundered,  and  a  sad,  noble,  humble  smile  irradiated  his. 
It  had  its  effect  on  Juliet.  She  would  be  generous  and 
forgive  his  presumption  :  she  knew  dwarfs  were  always 
conceited — that  wise  Nature  had  provided  them  with  high 
thoughts  wherewith  to  add  tlie  missing  cubit  to  their 
stature.  What  repulsive  things  Christianity  taught  !  Her 
very  flesh  recoiled  from  the  poor  ape  ! 

"  I  trust  you  are  satisfied,  ma'am,"  the  kobold  added, 
after  a  moment's  vain  expectation  of  a  word  from  Juliet, 
*'  that  your  secret  is  safe  with  me." 

"  I  am,"  answered  Juliet,  with  a  condescending  motion 
of  her  stately  neck,  saying  to  herself  in  feeling  if  not  in 


THE  OLD  GARDEN.  393 

conscious  thought,—"  After  all  he  is  hardly  human  !  I 
may  accept  his  devotion  as  I  would  that  of  a  dog  !" 

The  moment  she  had  thus  far  yielded,  she  began  to 
long  to  speak  of  her  husband.  Perhaps  he  could  tell  her 
something  of  him  !  at  least  he  could  talk  about  him. 
She  would  have  been  eager  to  look  on  his  reflection,  had 
it  been  possible,  in  the  mind  of  a  dog  that  loved  him. 
She  would  turn  the  conversation  in  a  direction  that  might 
lind  him. 

"But  I  do  not  see,"  she  went  on,  "how you,  Mr.  Pol- 
warth — I  think  that  is  your  name — how  you  can,  consist- 
ently with  your  principles, " 

"  P^xcuse  me,  ma'am  :  I  cannot  even,  by  silence,  seem 
to  admit  that  you  know  anything  whatever  of  my  prin- 
ciples." 

"  Oh  !"  she  returned,  with  a  smile  of  generous  confes- 
sion, "  I  was  brought  up  to  believe  as  you  do." 

"That  but  satisfies  me  that  for  the  present  you  are 
incapable  of  knowing  anything  of  my  piinciplcs." 

"  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  thinking  so,"  she  returned, 
with  the  condescension  of  superior  education  as  she  sup- 
posed, and  yet  with  the  first  motion  of  an  unconscious 
respect  for  the  odd  little  monster.— He,  with  wheezing 
chest,  went  on  throwing  up  the  deep  damp  fresh  earth, 
to  him  smelling  of  marvellous  things.  Ruth  would  have 
ached  all  over  to  see  him  working  so  hard  ! — "  Still," 
Juliet  went  on,  "  supposing  your  judgment  of  mecorrect, 
"that  only  makes  it  the  stranger  you  should  imagine  that 
in  serving  such  a  one,  you  are  pleasing  him  you  call  your 
master.  He  says  whosoever  denies  him  before  men  he 
will  deny  before  the  angels  of  God." 

"What  my  L.ord  says  he  will  do,  he  will  do,  as  he  meant 
it  when  he" said  it:  what  he  tells  me  to  do,  1  try  to 
understand  and  do.  Now  he  has  told  me  of  all  things  not 
to  say  that  good  comes  of  evil.  He  condemned  that  in 
the  rharisees  as  the  greatest  of  crimes.  When,  therefore, 
I  sec  a  man  like  your  husband,  helping  his  neighbours 
near  and  far,  being  kind,  indeed  loving,  and  good-hearted 


394  PAUL  FABER. 

to  all  men," — Here  a  great  sigh,  checked  and  broken  into 
many  little  ones,  came  in  a  tremulous  chain  from  the 
bosom  of  the  wife — "  I  am  bound  to  say  that  man  is 
not  scattering  his  master  abroad.  He  is  indeed  opposing 
him  in  words  :  he  speaks  against  the  Son  of  Man ;  but 
that  the  Son  of  Man  himself  says  shall  be  forgiven  him. 
If  I  mistake  in  this,  to  my  own  master  I  stand  or  fall." 

"  How  can  he  be  his  master  if  he  does  not  acknow- 
ledge him  ?" 

"  Because  the  very  tongue  with  which  he  denies  him  is 
yet  his.  I  am  the  master  of  the  flowers  that  will  now 
grow  by  my  labour,  though  not  one  of  them  will  know 
me — how  much  more  must  he  be  the  master  of  the 
men  he  has  called  into  being,  though  they  do  not  acknow- 
ledge him  !  If  the  story  of  the  gospel  be  a  true  one,  as 
with  my  heart  and  soul  and  all  that  is  in  me  I  believe 
it  is,  then  Jesus  of  Nazareth  is  lord  and  master  of  Mr. 
Faber,  and  for  him  not  to  acknowledge  it  is  to  fall  from 
the  summit  of  his  being.  To  deny  one's  master,  is  to  be  a 
slave." 

"  You  are  very  polite  !"  said  Mrs.  Faber,  and  turned 
away.  She  recalled  her  imaginary  danger,  however,  and 
turning  again,  said,  "  But  though  I  differ  from  you  in 
opinion,  Mr.  Polwarth,  I  quite  recognize  you  as  no 
common  man,  and  put  you  upon  your  honour  with  re- 
gard to  my  secret." 

"  Had  you  entrusted  me  with  your  secret,  ma'am, 
the  phrase  would  have  had  more  significance.  But, 
obeying  my  master,  I  do  not  require  to  think  of  my  own 
honour.  Those  who  do  not  acknowledge  their  master, 
cannot  afford  to  forget  it.  But  if  they  do  not  learn  to 
obey  him,  they  will  find  by  the  time  they  have  got  through 
what  they  call  life,  they  have  left  themselves  little  honour 
to  boast  of." 

"  He  has  guessed  my  real  secret !"  thought  poor  Juliet, 
and  turning  away  in  confusion,  without  a  word  of  farewell, 
went  straight  into  the  house.  But  before  Dorothy,  who 
had  been  on  the  watch  at  the  top  of  the  slope,  came  in, 


THE  OLD  GARDEN.  395 

she  had  begun  to  hope  that  the  words  of  the  forward, 
disagreeable,  conceited  dwarf,  had  in  them  nothing  be- 
yond a  general  remark. 

When  Dorothy  entered,  she  instantly  accused  her  of 
treachery.  Dorothy,  repressing  her  indignation,  begged 
she  would  go  with  her  to  Pohvarih.  But  when  they 
reached  the  spot,  the  gnome  had  vanished. 

He  had  been  digging  only  for  the  sake  of  the  flowers 
buried  in  Juliet,  and  had  gone  home  to  lie  down.  His 
bodily  strength  was  exhausted,  but  will  and  faith  and 
purpose  never  forsook  the  soul  cramped  up  in  that 
distorted  frame.  When  greatly  suftcring,  he  would  yet 
suffer  with  his  will — not  merely  resigning  himself  to  the 
will  of  God,  but  desiring  the  suffering  that  God  willed. 
W'lien  the  wearied  soul  could  no  longer  keep  the  summit 
of  the  task,  when  not  strength  merely,  but  the  con- 
sciousness of  faith  and  duty  failed  him,  he  would  cast 
faith  and  strength  and  duty,  all  his  being,  into  the  gulf 
of  the  Father's  will,  and  simply  suffer,  no  longei  trying 
to  feel  anything — waiting  only  until  the  Life  should  send 
him  light. 

Dorothy  turned  to  Juliet. 

"  You  might  have  asked  Mr.  Polwarth,  Juliet,  whether 
I  had  betrayed  you,"  she  said. 

"Now  I  think  of  it,  he  did  say  you  had  not  told 
him.  But  how  was  1  to  take  the  word  of  a  creature 
like  that  ?" 

"Juliet,"  said  Dorothy,  very  angry,  "  I  begin  to  doubt 
if  you  were  worth  taking  the  trouble  for  !" 

She  turned  from  her,  and  walked  towards  the  house, 
Juliet  rushed  after  her  and  caught  her  in  her  arms. 

"  Forgive  me,  Dorothy,"  she  cried.  "  I  am  not  in  my 
right  senses,  I  do  believe.  What  is  to  be  done  now  this 
• — man  knows  it?" 

"  Things  are  no  worse  than  they  were,"  said 
Dorothy,  as  quickly  appeased  as  angered.  "  On  the 
contrary,  I  believe  we  have  the  only  one  to  help  us  who 
is  able  to  do  it.     Why,  Juliet,  what  am  I  to  do  with  )-ou 


396  PAUL  FABER. 

when  my  father  sends  the  carpenters  and  bricklayers  to 
the  house  ?  They  will  be  into  every  corner  !  He  talks 
of  commencing  next  week,  and  1  am  at  my  wits'  end." 

"Oil!  don't  forsake  me,  Dorothy,  after  all  you  have 
done  for  me,"  cried  Juliet.  "  If  you  turn  me  out,  there 
never  was  creature  in  the  world  so  forlorn  as  I  shall  be 
— absolutely  helpless,  Dorothy  !" 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  you,  my  poor  Juliet;  but  if 
Mr.  Polwarth  do  not  think  of  some  way,  I  don't  know 
Avhat  will  become  of  us.  You  don't  know  what  you  are 
guilty  of  in  despising  him.  Mr.  Wingfold  speaks  of  him 
as  far  the  first  man  in  Glaston." 

Certainly  Mr.  ^Vingfold,  Mr.  Drew,  and  some  others 
of  the  best  men  in  the  place,  did  think  him,  of  those  they 
knew,  the  greatest  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Glaston 
was  altogether  of  a  different  opinion.  Which  was  the 
right  opinion,  must  be  left  to  the  measuring  rod  that  shall 
finally  be  applied  to  the  statures  of  men. 

The  history  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven — need  I  say  I 
mean  a  very  different  thing  from  what  is  called  churcJt.- 
Jiistory  ? — is  the  only  history  that  will  ever  be  able  to  show 
itself  a  history — that  can  ever  come  to  be  thoroughly 
written,  or  to  be  read  with  a  clear  understanding ;  for  it 
alone  v.-ill  prove  able  to  explain  itself,  while  in  doing  so 
it  will  explain  all  other  attempted  histories  as  well. 
Many  of  those  who  will  then  be  found  first  in  the  eternal 
record,  may  have  been  of  little  regard  in  the  eyes  of  even 
their  religious  contemporaries,  may  have  been  absolutely 
unknown  to  tlie  generations  that  came  after,  and  were  yet 
the  men  of  life  and  potency,  working  as  light,  as  salt, 
as  leaven,  in  the  world.  When  the  leal  worth  of  things 
is,  over  all,  the  measure  of  their  estimation,  then  is  the 
kinsrdom  of  our  God  and  his  Christ. 


CHAPTER    XLII. 


THE    POTTERY. 


C"€?T  had  been  a  very  dry  autumn,  and  the 
periodical  rains  had  been  long  delayed, 
so  that  the  minister  had  been  able  to 
do  much  for  the  houses  he  had  bought, 
called  the  Pottery.  There  had  been  but 
just  rain  enough  to  reveal  the  advantage 
of  the  wall  he  had  built  to  compel  the  water  to  keep  the 
wider  street.  Thoroughly  dry  and  healthy  it  was  im- 
possible to  make  them,  at  least  in  the  time ;  but  it  is 
one  thing  to  have  the  water  all  about  the  i)lace  you  stand 
on,  and  another  to  be  up  to  the  knees  in  it.  Not  at  that 
point  only,  however,  but  at  every  spot  where  the  water 
could  enter  freely,  he  had  done  what  he  could  pro- 
visionally for  the  defence  of  his  poor  colony^ — for  alas  ! 
how  much  among  the  well-to-do,  in  town  or  city,  are  the 
poor  like  colonists  only  ! — and  he  had  great  hopes  of 
the  result.  Stone  and  brick  and  cement  he  had  used 
freely,  and  one  or  two  of  the  people  about  began 
to  have  a  glimmering  idea  of  the  use  of  money  after  a 
gospel  fashion — that  is,  for  thorough  work  where  and 
because  it  was  needed.  The  curate  was  full  of  admiration 
and  sympathy.  But  the  whole  thing  gave  great  dis- 
satisfaction to  others  not  a  few.     For,  as  the  currents 


398  PAUL  FABER. 

of  inundation  would  be  somewhat  altered  in  direction  and 
increased  in  force  by  his  obstructions,  it  became  necessary 
for  several  others  also  to  add  to  the  defences  of  their 
property,  and  this  of  course  was  felt  to  be  a  grievance. 
Their  personal  inconveniences  were  like  the  shilling 
that  hides  the  moon,  and,  in  the  resentment  they  oc- 
casioned, blinded  their  hearts  to  the  seriousness  of  the  evils 
from  which  their  merely  temporary  annoyance  was  the 
deliverance  of  their  neighbours.  A  fancy  of  prescriptive 
right  in  their  own  comforts  outweighed  all  the  long  and 
heavy  sufferings  of  the  others.  Why  should  not  their 
neighbours  continue  miserable,  when  they  had  been  miser- 
able all  their  lives  hitherto  ?  Those  who,  on  the  contrary, 
had  been  comfortable  all  their  lives,  and  liked  it  so  much, 
ought  to  continue  comfortable — even  at  their  expense. 
Why  not  let  well  alone?  Or  if  people  would  be  so 
unreasonable  as  to  want  to  be  comfortable  too,  when 
nobody  cared  a  straw  about  them,  let  them  make  them- 
selves comfortable  without  annoying  those  superior 
beings  who  had  been  comfortable  all  the  time  ! — Persons 
who,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  reason  thus,  would  do 
well  to  read  with  a  little  attention  the  parable  of 
the  Rich  Man  and  Lazarus,  wherein  it  seems  re- 
cognized that  a  man's  having  been  used  to  a  thing  may 
be  just  the  reason,  not  for  the  continuance,  but  for  the 
alteration  of  his  condition.  In  the  present  case  the 
person  who  most  found  himself  aggrieved,  was  the 
dishonest  butcher.  A  piece  of  brick  wall  which  the 
minister  had  built  in  contact  with  the  wall  of  his  yard, 
would  indubitably  cause  such  a  rise  in  the  water  at  the 
descent  into  the  area  of  his  cellar,  that,  in  order  to  its  pro- 
tection in  a  moderate  flood— in  a  great  one  the  cellar 
was  always  filled — the  addition  to  its  defence  of  two  or 
three  more  rovv'S  of  bricks  would  be  required,  carry- 
ing a  correspondent  diminution  of  air  and  light.  It 
is  one  of  the  punishments  overtaking  those  who  wrong 
their  neighbours,  that  not  only  do  they  feel  more  keenly 
than  others  any  injury  done  to   themselves,  but   they 


THE  POTTERY.  399 

take  many  things  for  injuries  that  do  not  belong  to 
the  category.  It  was  but  a  matter  of  a  few  shiUings  at 
the  most,  but  the  man  who  did  not  scruple  to  charge  the 
less  careful  of  his  customers  for  undelivered  ounces, 
gathering  to  pounds  and  pounds  of  meat,  resented 
bitterly  the  necessity  of  the  outlay.  lie  knew,  or  ought 
to  have  known,  that  he  had  but  to  acquaint  the  minister 
with  the  fact,  to  have  the  thing  set  right  at  once  j  but  the 
minister  had  found  him  out,  and  he  therefore  much  i)rc- 
fcrred  the  possession  of  his  grievance  to  its  removal.  To 
his  friends  he  regretted  that  a  minister  of  the  gospel  should 
be  so  corrupted  by  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness  as  to 
use  it  against  members  of  his  own  church  :  that,  he  said, 
was  not  the  way  to  make  friends  with  it.  But  on  the 
pretence  of  a  Christian  spirit,  he  avoided  showing  Mr. 
Drake  any  sign  of  his  resentment ;  for  the  face  of  his  neigh- 
bour shames  a  man  whose  heart  condemns  him  but  shames 
him  not.  He  restricted  himself  to  grumbling,  and 
brooding  to  counterplot  the  mischiefs  of  the  minister. 
What  right  had  he  to  injure  him  for  the  sake  of  the  poor? 
Was  it  not  written  in  the  Bible  :  Thou  shalt  not  favour 
the  poor  man  in  his  cause  ?  Was  it  not  written  also.  For 
every  man  shall  bear  his  own  burden?  That  was  common 
sense  !  He  did  his  share  in  supporting  the  poor  that  were 
church-members,  but  was  he  to  suffer  for  improvements 
on  Drake's  property  for  the  sake  of  a  pack  of  roughs  ! 
Let  him  be  charitable  at  his  own  cost !  &c.,  &c.  Self  is 
prolific  in  argument. 

It  suited  Mr.  Drake  well,  notwithstanding  his  church- 
republican  theories,  against  which,  in  the  abstract,  I  could 
ill  object,  seeing  the  whole  current  of  Bible  teaching  is 
towards  the  God-inspired  ideal  commonwealth — it  suited 
a  man  like  ]\Ir.  Drake  well,  I  say,  to  be  an  autocrat,  and 
was  a  most  happy  thing  for  his  tenants,  for  certainly  no 
other  system  of  government  than  a  wise  autocracy  will 
serve  in  regard  to  the  dwellings  of  the  i)Ooi.  And  already,  I 
repeat,  he  had  effected  not  a  little.  Several  new  cottages 
had  been  built,  and  one  incorrigible  old  one  pulled  down. 


40O  PAUL  T'ABER 

But  it  liad  dawned  upon  lum  that,  however  desirable  it 
might  be  on  a  dry  hill-side,  on  such  a  foundation  as  this 
a  cottage  was  the  worst  form  of  human  dwelling  that 
could  be  built.  For  when  the  whole  soil  was  in  time 
of  rain  like  a  full  sponge,  every  room  upon  it  was  little 
better  than  a  hollow  in  a  cloud,  and  the  right  thing  must 
be  to  reduce  contact  with  the  soil  as  much  as  possible. 
One  high  house,  therefore,  with  many  stories,  and  stone 
feet  to  stand  upon,  must  be  the  proper  kind  of  building  for 
such  a  situation.  He  must  lift  the  first  house  from  the 
water,  and  set  as  many  more  houses  as  convenient  upon  it. 

He  had  therefore  already  so  far  prepared  for  the  build- 
ing of  such  a  house  as  should  lift  a  good  many  families  far 
above  all  deluge  ;  that  is,  he  had  dug  the  foundation,  and 
deep,  to  get  at  the  more  sohd  ground.  In  this  he  had 
been  precipitate,  as  not  unfrequently  in  his  life ;  for 
while  he  was  yet  meditating  whether  he  should  not  lay 
the  foundation  altogether  solid,  of  the  unporous  stone  of 
the  neighbourhood,  the  rains  began,  and  there  was  the 
great  hole,  to  stand  all  the  winter  full  of  .water,  in  the 
middle  of  the  cottages  ! 

The  weather  cleared  again,  but  after  a  St.  Martin's 
summer  unusually  prolonged,  the  rain  came  down  in 
terrible  earnest.  Day  after  day,  the  clouds  condensed, 
grew  water,  and  poured  like  a  squeezed  sponge.  A  wet 
November  indeed  it  was — wet  overhead — wet  underfoot 
—wet  all  round  !  and  the  rivers  rose  rapidly. 

When  the  Lythe  rose  beyond  a  certain  point,  it 
overdoweii  into  a  hollow,  hardly  a  valley,  and  thereby  a 
portion  of  it  descended  almost  straight  to  Glaston.  Hence 
it  came  that  in  a  flood  the  town  was  invaded  both  by  the 
rise  of  the  river  from  below,  and  by  this  current  from 
above,  on  its  way  to  rejoin  the  main  body  of  it, 
and  the  streets  were  soon  turned  into  canals.  The 
currents  of  the  slowly  swelling  river  and  of  its  tem- 
porary branch  then  met  in  Pine-street,  and  formed 
not  a  very  rapid,  but  a  heavy  run  at  ebb  tide ;  for 
Glaston,  though  at  some  distance  from  the  mouth  of  the 


THE  rOTTERY.  421 

river,  measuring  by  its  course,  was  not  fcr  from  the  sea, 
which  was  visible  across  the  green  flats,  a  silvery  Hne  on 
\he  horizon.  Landward,  beyond  the  flats,  high  ground 
rose  on  all  sides,  and  hence  it  was  that  the  floods  came 
down  so  deep  upon  Glaston. 

On  a  certain  Saturday,  it  rained  all  the  morning  heavily, 
but  towards  the  afternoon  cleared  a  little,  so  that  many 
hoped  the  climax  had  been  reached,  while  the  more 
experienced  looked  for  worse.  After  sunset,  the  clouds 
gathered  thicker  than  before,  and  tlie  rain  of  the  day 
v/as  as  nothing  to  the  torrent  descending  with  a  steady 
clash  all  night.  Wlien  the  slow  dull  morning  came, 
CilasLon  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  brown  lake,  into  which 
water  was  rushing  from  the  sky  in  straight  continuous 
lines.  The  prospect  was  discomposing.  Some,  too  con- 
fident in  the  apparent  change,  had  omitted  needful  pre- 
cautions, in  most  parts  none  were  now  possible,  and  in 
many  none  would  have  been  of  use.  Most  cellars  were 
full,  and  the  water  was  rising  on  the  ground-floors.  It 
was  a  very  different  affair  from  a  flood  in  a  mountainous 
country,  but  serious  enough,  though  without  immediate 
danger  to  life.  ISIany  a  person  that  niorning  stepped  out 
of  bed  up  to  the  knee  in  muddy  water. 

Wit'i  the  first  of  the  dawn  the  curate  stood  peering 
from  the  window  of  his  dressing-room,  througli  the  water 
fliat  coursed  down  the  pane,  to  discover  the  state  of  the 
country ;  for  the  window  looked  inland  from  the  skirt 
of  the  town.  All  was  gray  mist,  brown  water,  and 
sheeting  rain.  The  only  things  clear  were,  that  not  a 
soul  would  be  at  church  that  morning,  and  that,  though 
he  could  do  nothing  to  divide  them  the  bread  needful 
for  their  souls,  he  might  do  something  for  some  of  their 
bodies.  It  was  a  happy  thing  it  was  Sunday,  for,  having 
laid  in  their  stock  of  bread  the  day  before,  people  were  not 
so  dependent  on  the  bakers,  halt  whose  ovens  must  now 
be  full  of  water.  But  most  of  the  kitchens  must  be 
flooded,  he  reasoned,  the  fire-wood  soaking,  and  the  coal 
in  some  cellars  inaccessible.     I'he  very  lucifer-matches 

D   D 


402  FAUL  FABER. 

in  many  houses  would  be  as  useless  as  the  tinderbox  of 
a  shipwrecked  sailor.  And  if  the  rain  were  to  cease  at 
once,  the  water  would  yet  keep  rising  for  many  hours. 
He  turned  from  the  window,  took  his  bath  in  homceo- 
pathic  preparation,  and  then  went  to  wake  his  wife. 

She  was  one  of  those  blessed  women  who  always  open 
their  eyes  smiling.  She  owed  very  little  of  her  power  of 
sympathy  to  personal  suffering ;  the  perfection  of  her 
health  might  have  made  one  who  was  too  anxious  for  her 
spiritual  growth,  even  a  litde  regretful.  Her  husband 
therefore  had  seldom  to  think  of  sparing  her  when  any- 
thing had  to  be  done.  She  could  lose  a  night's  sleep 
without  the  smallest  injury,  and  stand  fatigue  better  than 
most  men ;  and  in  the  requirements  of  the  present 
necessity,  there  would  be  mingled  a  large  element  of 
adventure,  almost  of  frolic,  full  of  delight  to  a  vigorous 
organization. 

"  What  a  good  time  of  it  the  angels  of  wind  and  flame 
must  have !"  said  the  curate  to  himself,  as  he  went  to 
wake  her.  "What  a  delight  to  be  embodied  as  a  wind, 
or  a  flame,  or  a  rushing  sea  !— Come,  Helen,  my  help ! 
Glaston  wants  you,"  he  said  softly  in  her  ear. 

She  started  up. 

"  What  is  it,  Thomas  ?"  she  said,  holding  her  eyes  wider 
open  than  needful,  to  show  him  she  was  capable. 

"  Nothing  to  frighten  you,  darling,"  he  answered,  "  but 
plenty  to  be  done.  The  river  is  out,  and  the  people 
are  all  asleep.  Most  of  them  will  have  to  wait  for 
their  breakfast,  I  fear.  We  shall  have  no  prayers  ihis 
morning." 

"  But  plenty  of  divine  service,"  rejoined  Helen,  with  a 
sm'le  for  what  her  aunt  called  one  of  his  whims,  as  she 
got  up,  and  seized  some  of  her  garments. 

"  Take  time  for  your  bath,  dear,"  said  her  husband, 

"There  will  be  time  for  that  afterwards,"  she  replied. 
"What  shall  I  do  first?" 

"  Wake  the  servants,  and  tell  them  to  light  the  kitchen 
fire,  and  make  all  the  tea  and  coftee  they  can.     But  tell 


THE  POTTERY.  403 

them  to  make  it  good.  We  shall  get  more  of  everything 
as  soon  as  it  is  light.  I'll  go  and  bring  the  boat.  I  had 
it  drawn  up  and  moored  in  the  ruins  ready  to  float 
yesterday.  I  wish  I  hadn't  put  on  my  shirt  though  : 
I  shall  have  to  swim  for  it,  I  fear." 

"  I  shall  have  one  aired  before  you  come  back/'  said 
Helen. 

"Aired  !"  returned  her  husband;  "you  had  better  say 
watered.  In  five  minutes,  neither  of  us  will  have  a  dry 
stitch  on.  I'll  take  it  off  again,  and  be  content  with  my 
blue  jersey." 

He  hurried  out  into  the  rain.  Happily  there  was  no 
wind. 

Helen  waked  tlie  servants.  Before  they  appeared  she 
had  the  fire  lighted,  and  as  many  utensils  as  it  would 
accommodate  set  upon  it  with  water.  When  Wingfold 
returned,  he  found  her  in  the  midst  of  her  household, 
busily  preparing  every  kind  of  eatable  and  drinkable  they 
could  lay  hands  upon. 

He  had  brought  his  boat  to  the  churchyard,  and 
moored  it  between  two  headstones  :  they  would  have  their 
breakflist  first,  for  there  was  no  saying  when  they  might 
get  any  lunch,  and  food  is  work.  Besides,  there  was 
litUe  to  be  gained  by  rousing  j^eople  out  of  their  good 
sleep  :  there  was  no  danger  yet. 

"  It  is  a  great  comfort,"  said  the  curate,  as  he  drank 
his  coffee,  "  to  see  how  Drake  goes  in  heart  and  soul  for 
his  tenants.  He  is  pompous— a  little,  and  something 
of  a  fine  gentleman,  but  what  is  that  beside  his  great 
truth  !  That  work  of  his  is  the  simplest  act  of  Chris- 
tianity, of  a  public  kind,  I  have  ever  seen." 

"  But  is  there  not  a  great  change  on  him  since  lie 
had  his  money  ?"  said  Helen.  "  He  seems  to  me  so 
much  humbler  in  his  carriage,  and  simpler  in  his  manners 
than  before." 

"  It  is  quite  true,"  replied  her  husband.  "  — It  is  morti- 
fying to  think,"  he  went  en  after  a  little  pause,  "  how 
many  of  our  clergy,  from  mere  beggarly  pride,  holding 
D  D  2 


404  PAUL  I'ABER. 

their  rank  superior — as  better  accredited  servants  of  tlie 
carpenter  of  Nazareth,  I  suppose — would  look  down  on 
that  man  as  a  sort  of  hedge-parson.  The  world  they 
court  looked  down  upon  themselves  from  a  yet  greater 
height  once,  and  may  come  to  do  so  again.  Perhaps  the 
sooner  the  better,  for  then  they  will  know  which  they 
choose.  Now  they  serve  Mammon  and  think  they  serve 
God." 

"  It  is  not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  surely !"  said 
Helen. 

"  If  it  is  not  worldly  pride,  what  is  it  ?  I  do  not  think 
it  is  spiritual  pride.  Few  get  on  far  enough  to  be  much 
in  danger  of  that  worst  of  all  vices.  It  must  then  be 
cliurch-pride,  and  that  is  the  worst  form  of  worldly 
pride,  for  it  is  a  carrying  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
of  the  habits  and  judgments  of  the  kingdom  of  Satan. — 
I  am  wrong  !  such  things  cannot  be  imported  into  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  :  they  can  only  be  imported  into 
the  church,  which  is  bad  enough.  Helen,  the  church- 
man's pride  is  a  thing  to  turn  a  saint  sick  with  disgust, 
so  utterly  is  it  at  discord  with  the  lovely  human  harmony 
he  imagines  himself  the  minister  of  He  is  the  Pharisee, 
it  may  be  the  good  Pharisee,  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ; 
but  if  the  proud  churchman  be  in  the  kingdom  at  all,  it 
must  be  as  one  of  the  least  in  it.  I  don't  believe  one  in 
ten  who  is  guilty  of  this  pride  is  aware  of  the  sin  of  it. 
Only  the  other  evening  I  heard  a  worthy  canon  say,  it 
may  have  been  more  in  joke  than  appeared,  that  he 
would  have  all  dissenters  burned.  Now  the  canon  would 
not  hang  one  of  them — but  he  does  look  down  on  them 
all  with  contempt.  Such  miserable  paltry  weaknesses  and 
wickednesses,  for  in  a  servant  of  the  kingdom  the  feeling 
which  suggests  such  a  speecli  is  wicked,  are  the  moth- 
holes  in  the  garments  of  tlie  church,  the  teredo  in  its 
piles,  the  dry  rot  in  its  floors,  the  scaling  and  crumbling 
of  its  buttresses.  They  do  more  to  ruin  what  such  men 
call  the  church,  even  in  outward  respects,  than  any  of  the 
rude  attacks  of  those  Avhom  they  thus  despise.     He  who, 


THE  POTTERY.  405 

in  the  name  of  Christ,  pushes  his  neighbour  from  him, 
is  a  schismatic,  and  that  of  the  worst  and  only  dangerous 
type  ! — But  we  had  better  be  going.  It's  of  no  use 
teUing  you  to  take  your  waterproof ;  you'd  only  be  giving 
it  to  the  hrst  poor  woman  we  picked  up." 

"  I  may  as  well  have  the  good  of  it  till  then,"  said 
Helen,  and  ran  to  fetch  it,  while  the  curate  went  to  bring 
his  boat  to  the  house. 

When  he  opened  the  door,  there  was  no  longer  a  spot 
of  earth  or  of  sky  to  be  seen — only  water,  and  the  gray 
sponge  filling  the  upper  air,  through  which  coursed  mul- 
titudinous perpendicular  runnels  of  water.  Clad  in  a 
pair  of  old  trowsers  and  a  jerse}',  he  went  wading, 
and  where  the  ground  dipped,  swimming,  to  the  wcbtern 
gate  of  the  churchyard.  In  a  kw  minutes  he  was 
at  the  kitchen  window,  holding  the  boat  in  a  ong 
painter,  for  the  water,  although  quite  up  to  the  rectory 
walls,  was  not  yet  deep  enough  there  to  float  the  boat  with 
anybody  in  it.  The  servants  handed  him  out  the  great 
cans  they  used  at  school-teas,  full  of  hot  coffee,  and 
baskets  of  bread,  and  he  placed  them  in  the  boat,  covering 
them  with  a  tarpaulin.  Then  Helen  appeared  at  the 
door,  in  her  waterproof,  with  a  great  fur-cloak — to  throw 
over  him,  she  said,  when  she  took  the  oars,  for  she  meant 
to  have  her  share  of  the  fun  :  it  was  so  seldom  there  was 
any  going  on  a  Sunday  ! — How  she  would  have  shocked 
her  aunt,  and  better  women  than  she  ! 

"To-day,"  said  the  curate,  "we  shall  praise  God  with 
the  Jiiirlh  of  the  good  old  hundredth  psalm,  and  not  with 
the  fear  of  the  more  modern  version.'' 

As  he  spoke  he  bent  to  his  oars,  and  through  a  narrow 
lane  the  boat  soon  shot  into  Pine-street — now  a  wide 
canal,  banked  with  houses  dreary  and  dead,  save  where, 
from  an  upper  wintlow,  ])eeped  out  here  and  there  a 
sleepy  dismayed  countenance.  In  silence,  except  for  the 
sounds  of  the  oars,  and  the  dull  rush  of  water  everywhere, 
they  slipped  along. 

"  'J'his  is  fun  1"  said  Helen,  where  she  sat  and  steered. 


4o6  PAUL  FABER. 

"■  Very  quiet  fun  as  yet,"  answered  the  curate.  "  But 
it  will  get  faster  by  and  by." 

As  often  as  he  saw  any  one  at  a  window,  he  called  out 
that  tea  and  coffee  would  be  wanted  for  many  a  poor 
creature's  breakfast.  But  here  they  were  all  big  houses,  and 
he  rowed  swiftly  past  them,  for  his  business  lay,  not  where 
there  were  servants  and  well-stocked  larders,  but  where 
there  were  mothers  and  children  and  old  people,  and 
little  but  water  besides.  Nor  had  they  left  Pine  Street 
by  many  houses  before  they  came  where  help  was  right 
Avelcome.  Down  the  first  turning  a  miserable  cottage 
stood  three  feet  deep  in  the  water.  Out  jumped  the 
curate  with  the  painter  in  his  hand,  and  opened  the 
door. 

On  the  bed,  over  the  edge  of  which  the  water  was 
lapping,  sat  a  sickly  young  woman  in  her  night-dress, 
holding  her  baby  to  her  bosom.  She  stared  for  a  mo- 
ment with  big  eyes,  then  looked  down,  and  said  nothing; 
but  a  rose-tinge  mounted  from  her  heart  to  her  pale 
cheek. 

"  Good  morning,  Martha  !"  said  the  curate  cheerily. 
"  Rather  damp — ain't  it  ?     Where's  your  husband  ?" 

"  Away  looking  for  work,  sir,"  answered  Martha,  in  a 
hopelesst  one. 

"  Then  he  won't  miss  you.  Come  along.  Give  me 
the  baby." 

"  I  can't  come  like  this,  sir.  I  'ain't  got  no  clothes 
on." 

"  Take  them  with  you.  You  can't  put  them  on  : 
they're  all  wet.  Mrs.  Wingfold  is  in  the  boat :  she'll  see 
to  everything  you  want.  The  door's  hardly  wide  enough 
to  let  the  boat  through,  or  I'd  pull  it  close  up  to  the 
bed  for  you  to  get  in." 

She  hesitated. 

"  Come  along,"  he  repeated.  **  I  won't  look  at  you. 
Or  wait — I'll  take  the  baby,  and  come  back  for  you. 
Then  you  won't  get  so  wet." 


THE  POTrr.RV.  407 

He  took  the  baby  from  her  arms,  and  turned  to  the 
door. 

"  It  ain't  you  as  I  mind,  sir,"  said  Martha,  getlmg 
into  the  water  at  once  and  following  him,  " — no  more'n 
my  own  people  ;  but  all  the  town'U  be  at  the  windows 
by  this  time;' 

"  Never  mind  ;  we'll  see  to  you,"  he  returned. 

In  half  a  minute  more,  with  the  help  of  the  window- 
e/ill,  she  was  in  the  boat,  the  fur-cloak  wrapi)cd  about  her 
and  the  baby,  drinking  the  first  cup  of  the  hot  coftec. 

"  We  must  take  hcr'homc  at  once,"  said  the  curate. 

"  You  said  we  should  have  fun  !"  said  Helen,  the  tears 
rushing  into  her  eyes. 

She  had  left  the  tiller,  and,  while  the  mother  drank  her 
coffee,  was  patting  the  baby  under  the  cloak,  iiut  she 
had  to  betake  herself  to  the  tiller  again,  for  the  curate 
was  not  rowing  straight. 

When  they  reached  the  rectory,  the  servants  might  all 
have  been  grandmothers  from  the  way  they  received  the 
woman  and  her  child. 

"  Give  them  a  warm  bath  together,"  said  Helen,  "  as 
quickly  as  possible.— And  stay,  let  me  out,  Thomas— I 
must  go  and  get  Martha  some  clothes.  I  shan't  be  a 
minute." 

The  next  time  they  returned,  Wingfold,  looking  into 
the  kitchen,  could  hardly  believe  the  sweet  face  he  saw 
by  the  fire,  so  refined  in  its  comforted  sadness,  could  be 
that  of  Martha.  He  thought  whether  the  fine  linen,  clean 
and  white,  may  not  help  the  righteousness  even  of  the 
saints  a  litde. 

Their  next  take  was  a  boat-load  of  children  and  an  old 
grandmother.  Most  of  the  houses  had  a  higher  story, 
and  they  took  only  those  who  had  no  refuge.  Many 
more,  however,  drank  of  their  coffee  and  ate  of  their 
bread.  The  whole  of  the  morning  they  spent  thus,  call- 
ing, on  their  passages,  wherever  they  thought  they  could 
get'  help  or  find  accommodation.     By  noon  a  score  of 


4cS  PAUL  FADER. 

boats  were  out  rendering  similar  assistance.  The  water 
was  higher  than  it  had  been  for  many  years,  and  was  still 
rising.  Faber  had  laid  hands  upon  an  old  tub  of  a 
salmon-coble,  and  was  the  first  out  after  the  curate.  But 
there  was  no  fun  in  the  poor  doctor's  boat.  Once  the 
curate's  and  his  met  in  the  middle  of  Pine  Street — both 
as  full  of  people  as  they  could  c.nrry.  Wingfold  and 
Helen  greeted  Faber  frankly  and  kindly.  He  returned 
their  greeting  with  solenm  courtesy,  rowing  heavily  past. 
By  lunch-time,  Helen  had  her  house  almost  full,  and 
did  not  want  to  go  again  :  there  was  so  much  to  be  done  ! 
But  her  husband  persuaded  her  to  give  him  one  hour 
more;  the  servants  were  doing  so  well!  he  said.  She 
yielded.  He  rowed  her  to  the  church,  taking  up  the 
sexton  and  his  boy  on  their  way.  There  the  crypts  and 
vaults  were  full  of  water.  Old  wood-carvings  and  bits 
of  ancient  coffins  were  floating  about  in  them.  But  the 
floor  of  the  church  was  above  the  water  :  he  landed 
Helen  dry  in  the  porch,  and  led  her  to.  the  organ-loft. 
Now  the  organ  was  one  of  great  power ;  seldom  in- 
deed, large  as  the  church  was,  did  they  venture  its  full 
force  :  he  requested  her  to  pull  out  every  stop,  and  send 
the  voice  of  the  church,  in  full  blast,  into  every  corner 
of  Glaston.  He  would  come  back  for  her  in  half  an 
hour  and  take  her  home.  He  desired  the  sexton  to 
leave  all  the  doors  open,  and  remember  that  the  instru- 
ment would  want  every  breath  of  wind  he  and  his  boy 
could  raise. 

He  had  just  laid  hold  of  his  oars,  when  out  of  the 
porch  rushed  a  roar  of  harmony  that  seemed  to  seize 
his  boat  and  blow  it  away  upon  its  mission  like  a  feather 
— for  in  the  delight  of  the  music  the  curate  never  felt  the 
arms  that  urged  it  swiftly  along.  After  him  it  came 
pursuing,  and  wafted  him  mightily  on.  Over  the  brown 
waters  it  went  rolling,  a  grand  billow  of  innumerable 
involving  and  involved  waves.  He  thought  of  the  spirit 
of  God  that  moved  on  the  face  of  the  primeval  waters, 
and  out  of  a  chaos  wrouglit  a  cosmos.   ^  Would,"  he  said 


THE  POTTER Y.  409 

to  himself,  "  that  ever  from  the  church  door  went  forth 
such  a  spirit  of  harmony  and  lieaHng,  of  peace  and  Hie  ! 
But  the  church's  foes  are  they  of  her  own  houscliold, 
who  with  the  axes  and  hammers  of  pride  and  exchisivc- 
ness  and  vulgar  priestliness,  break  the  carved  work  of 
her  numberless  chapels,  yea,  build  doorless  screens  from 
floor  to  roof,  dividing  nave  and  choir  and  chancel  and 
transepts  and  aisles  into  sections  numberless,  and,  with 
the  evil  dust  they  raise,  darken  for  ages  the  windows  of 
her  clerestory  !" 

The  curate  was  thinking  of  no  parly,  but  of  individual 
spirit.  Of  the  priestliness  I  ha\e  encountered,  I  cannot 
determine  whether  the  worse  belonged  to  the  church  of 
England  or  a  certain  body  of  dissenters. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 


THE     GATE-LODGE. 


(R.  BEVIS  had  his  liorses  put  to,  then 
taken  away  again,  and  an  old  hiuiter 
saddled.  But  half-way  from  home  he  came 
to  a  burst  bridge,  and  had  to  return,  much 
to  the  relief  of  his  wife,  who,  when  she 
had  him  in  the  house  again,  could  enjoy 
the  rain,  she  said  :  it  was  so  cosy  and  comfortable  to 
feel  you  could  not  go  out,  or  anybody  call.  I  presume 
she  therein  seemed  to  take  a  bond  of  fate,  and  doubly 
assure  the  every-day  dullness  of  her  existence.  Well, 
she  was  a  good  creature,  and  doubtless  a  corner  would 
be  found  for  her  up  above,  where  a  little  more  work 
would  probably  be  required  of  her. 

Polwarth  and  his  niece  Ruth  rose  late,  for  neither  had 
slept  Avell.  \A'hen  they  had  breakfasted,  they  read 
together  from  the  Bible  :  first  the  uncle  read  the  passage 
he  had  last  got  light  upon— he  was  always  getting  light 
upon  passages,  and  then  the  niece  the  passage  she  had 
last  been  gladdened  by ;  after  which  they  sat  and  chatted 
a  long  time  by  the  kitchen  fire. 

"  I  am  afraid  your  asthma  was  bad  last  night,  uncle 
dear,"  said  Ruth.  "  I  heard  your  breathing  every  time  I 
woke." 


THE  GATE-LODGE.  41 1 

"  It  was,  rather,"  answered  the  Httle  man,  '•  but  J  took 
my  revenge,  and  had  a  good  crow  over  it." 

"  I  know'what  you  mean,  uncle :  do  let  me  hear  the 
crow."  .        ,  .     ,       , 

He  rose,  and  slowly  climbing  the  stau-  to  his  chamber, 
returned  with  a  half-sheet  of  paper  in  his  hand,  resumed 
his  seat,  and  read  the  following  lines,  which  he  had 
Avrittcn  in  pencil  when  the  light  came. 

Satan,  avaunt ! 

Nay,  take  thine  hour  ; 
Thou  canst  not  daunt, 

Thou  hast  no  jjower  ; 
15e  welcome  to  thy  nest, 
Though  it  be  in  my  breast. 

Burrow  amain  ; 

Dig  Hke  a  mole  ; 
Fill  every  vein 

With  half-burnt  coal  ; 
Tuff  the  keen  dust  about, 
And  all  to  choke  me  out. 

rill  music's  ways 

\\ith  creaking  cries, 
That  no  loud  praise 

May  climb  the  skies  ; 
And  on  my  labouring  chest 
Lay  mountains  of  unrest. 

My  slumber  sleep 

In  dreams  of  haste, 
That  only  sleep, 

No  rest  I  taste — 
With  stiflings,  rimes  of  rote, 
And  fingers  on  the  throat. 

Satan,  thy  might 

I  do  defy  ; 
Live  core  of  night, 

I  patient  lie  : 
A  wind  comes  up  the  gray 
Will  blow  thee  clean  r.-vay. 


.i:3  FAUL  FABER. 

Christ's  angel,  Death,  •    • 

All  radiant  white, 
With  one  cold  breath 

Will  scare  thee  quite, 
And  give  my  lungs  an  air 
As  fresh  as  answered  prayer 

So,  Satan,  do 

Thy  worst  with  mc, 
Until  the  True 

Shall  set  nie  free, 
And  end  what  he  began, 
l!y  makiiig  me  a  man. 

"  It  is  not  much  of  poetry,  Ruth !"  he  said,  raising 
his  eyes  from  the  paper ;  "  — no  song  of  thrusli  or  black- 
bird !  I  am  ashamed  that  I  called  it  a  cock-crow — for 
that  is  one  of  the  finest  things  in  the  world — a  clarion 
defiance  to  darkness  and  sin — far  too  good  a  name  for 
my  poor  jingle — except,  indeed,  you  call  it  a  Cochin- 
china-cock-crow— from  out  a  very  wheezy  chest  !" 

"  '  My  strength  is  made  perfect  in  weakness,'  "  said 
Ruth  solemnly,  heedless  of  the  depreciation.  To  her 
the  verses  were  as  full  of  meaning  as  if  she  had  made 
them  herself. 

*'  I  think  I  like  the  older  reading  better — that  is,  without 
the  J/)',"  said  Polwarth  :  "  '  Strength  is  made  perfect  in 
weakness.'  Somehow — I  cannot  explain  the  feeling — to 
hear  a  grand  aphorism,  spoken  in  widest  application,  as 
a  fact  of  more  than  humanity,  of  all  creation,  from  the 
mouth  of  the  human  God,  the  living  Wisdom,  seems  to 
bring  me  close  to  the  very  heart  of  the  universe.  Strength 
— strength  itself — all  over —  is  made  perfect  in  weakness; — 
a  law  of  being,  you  see,  Ruth  !  not  a  law  of  Christian 
growth  only,  but  a  law  of  growth,  even  all  the  growth  lead- 
ing up  to  the  Christian,  which  growth  is  the  highest  kind  of 
creation.  The  Master's  own  strength  was  thus  perfected, 
and  so  must  be  that  of  his  brothers  and  sisters.  Ah, 
what  a  strength  must  be  his  ! — how  patient  in  endurance 
— how  gentle  in  exercise—  how  mighty  in  devotion — how 
fine  in  its   issues,    perfected  by  such     suffering  !      Ah, 


THE  GATE-LODGE.  4'3 

my  child,  you  suffer  sorely  sometimes — I  know  it  well  ! 
but  shall  we  not  let  patience  have  her  perfect  work,  that 
we  may— one  day,  Ruth,  one  day,  my  child — be  perfect 
and  entire,  wanting  nothing  ?" 

Led  by  the  climax  in  his  tone,  Ruth  sHpped  from  her 
stool  on  her  knees.  Polwarth  kneeled  beside  her,  and 
said  : 

"  O  Father  of  life,  we  praise  thee  that  one  day  thou 
wilt  take  thy  poor  crooked  creatures,  and  give  them 
bodies  like  Christ's,  perfect  as  his,  and  full  of  thy 
light.  Help  us  to  grow  faster — as  fast  as  thou  canst 
help  us  to  grow.  Help  us  to  keep  our  eyes  on  the 
opening  of  thy  hand,  that  we  may  know  the  manna  when 
it  comes.  O  Lord,  we  rejoice  that  we  are  thy  making, 
though  thy  handiwork  is  not  very  clear  in  our  outer  man 
as  yet.  We  bless  thee  that  we  feel  thy  hand  making 
us.  What  if  it  be  in  pain  !  Evermore  we  hear  tlie  voice 
of  the  potter  above  the  hum  and  grind  of  his  wheel. 
Father,  thou  only  knowest  how  we  love  thee.  Fashion 
the  clay  to  thy  beautiful  will.  To  the  eyes  of  men 
we  are  vessels  of  dishonour,  but  we  know  thou  dost 
not  despise  us,  for  thou  hast  made  us,  and  thou  dwellest 
with  us.  Thou  hast  made  us  love  thee,  and  hope  in 
thee,  and  in  thy  love  we  will  be  brave  and  endure.  All 
in  good  time,  O  Lord.     Amen." 

While  they  thus  prayed,  kneeling  on  the  stone  floor  ot 
the  little  kitchen,  dark  under  the  universal  canopy  of 
cloud,  the  rain  went  on  clashing  and  murmuring  all 
around,  rushing  fr:,m  the  eaves,  and  exploding  with  sharp 
hisses  in  the  lire,  and  in  the  niingled  noise  they  had 
neither  heard  a  low  tap,  several  times  repeated,  nor  the 
soft  opening  of  the  door  that  followed.  When  they 
rose  from  their  knees,  it  was  therefore  with  astonishment 
they  saw  a  woman  standing  motionless  in  the  doorway, 
without  cloak  or  bonnet,  her  dank  garments  cUnging  to 
her  form  and  dripping  with  rain. 

When  Juliet  woke  that  morning,  she  cared  little  that 
the  sky  was  dull  and  the  earth  dark.     A  selfish  sorrow, 


414  PAUL  FABER. 

a  selfish  love  even,  makes  us  stupid,  and  Juliet  had  been 
growing  more  and  more  stupid.  Many  people,  it  seems 
to  me,  through  sorrow  endured  perforce  and  without  a 
gracious  submission,  slowly  sink  in  the  scale  of  existence. 
Such  are  some  of  those  middle-aged  women,  who  might 
be  the  very  strength  of  social  well-being,  but  have  no 
aspiration,  and  Iiope  only  downwards — after  rich  hus- 
bands for  their  daughters,  it  maybe — a  new  bonnet  or  an 
old  coronet — the  devil  knows  what. 

Bad  as  the  weather  had  been  the  day  before,  Dorothy 
had  yet  contrived  to  visit  her,  and  see  that  she  was  pro- 
vided with  every  necessary;  and  Juliet  never  doubted 
she  would  come  that  day  also.  She  thought  of  Dorothy's 
ministrations  as  we  so  often  do  of  God's — as  of  things 
that  come  of  themselves,  for  which  there  is  no  occasion 
to  be  thankful. 

When  she  had  finished  the  other  little  house-work 
required  for  her  comfort,  a  labour  in  which  she  found 
some  little  respite  from  the  gnawings  of  memory  and  the 
blankness  of  anticipation,  she  ended  by  making  up  a 
good  fire,  though  without  a  thought  of  Dorothy's  being 
wet  when  she  arrived,  and  sitting  down  by  the  window, 
stared  out  at  the  pools,  spreading  wider  and  wider  on 
the  gravel  walks  beneath  her.  She  sat  till  she  grew 
chilly,  then  rose  and  dropped  into  an  easy  chair  by  the 
fire,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

She  slept  a  long  time,  and  woke  in  terror,  seeming  to 
have  waked  herself  with  a  cry.  The  fire  was  out,  and 
the  hearth  cold.  She  shivered  and  drew  her  shawl  about 
her.  Then  suddenly  she  remembered  the  frightful  dream 
she  had  had. 

She  dreamed  that  she  had  just  fled  from  her  husband 
and  gained  the  park,  when,  "the  moment  she  entered  it, 
something  seized  her  from  behind,  and  bore  her  swiftly, 
as  in  the  arms  of  a  man — only  she  seemed  to  hear  the 
rush  of  wings  behind  her — the  way  she  had  been  going. 
She  struggled  in  terror,  but   in  vain;    tlie  power  bore 


iriE  GATE-LODGE.  415 

her  swiftly  on,  and  she  knew  whither.  Her  very  being 
recoiled  from  the  horrible  depth  of  the  motionless  pool, 
in  which,  as  she  now  seemed  to  know,  lived  one  of  the 
loathsome  creatures  of  the  semi-chaotic  era  of  the  world, 
which  had  survived  its  kind  as  well  as  its  coevals,  and 
was  ages  older  than  the  human  race.  The  pool  appeared 
— but  not  as  she  had  known  it,  for  it  boiled  and  heaved, 
bubbled  and  rose.  From  its  lowest  depths  it  was  moved 
to  meet  and  receive  her !  Coil  upon  coil  it  lifted  itself 
into  the  air,  towering  like  a  waterspout,  then  stretched 
out  a  long,  writhing,  shivering  neck  to  take  her  from 
the  invisible  arms  that  bore'  her  to  her  doom.  The 
neck  shot  out  a  head,  and  the  head  shot  out  the  tongue 
of  a  water-snake.  She  shrieked  and  woke,  bathed  in 
terror. 

With  the  memory  of  the  dream,  not  a  little  of  its 
horror  returned  ;  she  rose  to  shake  it  oft",  and  went  to  the 
window.  What  did  she  see  there  ?  The  fearsome  pool 
had  entered  the  garden,  had  come  half-way  to  the  house, 
and  was  plainly  rising  every  moment.  More  or  less  the 
pool  had  haunted  her  ever  since  she  came ;  she  had 
seldom  dared  go  nearer  it  than  half-way  down  the  garden. 
But  for  the  dulling  influence  of  her  misery,  it  would 
have  been  an  unendurable  horror  to  her;  now  it  was 
coming  to  fetch  her,  as  she  had  seen  it  in  her  warning 
dream  !  Her  brain  reeled ;  for  a  moment  she  gazed 
paralyzed  with  horror,  then  turned  from  the  window,  and, 
with  almost  the  conviction  that  the  fiend  of  her  vision 
was  pursuing  her,  fled  from  the  house,  and  across  the 
park,  through  the  sheets  of  rain,  to  the  gate-lodge,  nor 
stopped  until,  all  unaware  of  having  once  thought  of  him 
in  her  terror,  she  stood  at  the  door  of  Polwarth's  cottage. 

Ruth  was  darting  towards  her  with  outstretched  hands 
of  ministration,  when  her  uncle  stopped  her. 

"  Ruth,  my  child,"  he  said,  "  run  and  light  a  fire  in 
the  parlour.     I  will  welcome  our  visitor." 

She    turned    instantly,    and    left    the    room.      Then 


4i6  PAUL  FABER. 

Polwarth  went  up  to  Juliet,  who  stood  trembling,  unable 
to  utter  a  word,  and  said,  with  perfect  old-fashioned 
courtesy — 

"  You  are  heartily  welcome,  ma'am.  I  sent  Ruth 
away  that  I  might  first  assure  you  that  you  are  as  safe 
with  her  as  with  me.  Sit  here  a  moment,  ma'am.  You 
are  so  wet,  I  dare  not  place  you  nearer  to  the  fire. — 
Ruth  !" 

She  came  instantly. 

"  Ruth,"  he  repeated,  "  this  lady  is  Mrs.  Faber.  She  is 
come  to  visit  us  for  a  while.  Nobody  must  know  of  it. 
—You  need  not  be  at  all  uneasy,  ISIrs.  Faber.  Not  a 
soul  will  come  near  us  to-day.  r,iit  I  will  lock  the  door, 
to  secure  time,  if  any  one  should. —You  will  get  Mrs. 
Faber's  room  ready  at  once,  Ruth.  I  will  come  and  help 
you.  But  a  spoonful  of  brandy  in  hot  water  first,  please. 
— Let  me  move  your  chair  a  little,  ma'am — out  of  the 
draught." 

Juliet  in  silence  did  everything  she  was  told,  received 
the  prescribed  antidote  from  Ruth,  and  was  left  alone  in 
the  kitchen. 

But  the  moment  she  was  freed  from  one  dread,  she 
was  seized  by  another ;  suspicion  took  the  place  of 
terror;  and  as  soon  as  she  heard  the  toiling  of  the 
goblins  up  the  creaking  stair  cease,  she  crept  to  the  foot 
of  it  after  them,  and,  with  no  more  compunction  than  a 
princess  in  a  fairy-tale,  set  herself  to  listen.  It  was  not 
difficult,  for  the  little  enclosed  staircase  carried  every 
word  to  the  bottom  of  it. 

"  I  t/uviglit  she  wasn't  dead  !"  she  heard  Ruth  exclaim 
joyfully ;  and  the  words  and  tone  set  her  wondering. 

"  I  saw  you  did  not  seem  greatly  astonished  at  the  sight 
of  her ;  but  what  made  you  think  such  an  unlikely  thing?" 
rejoined  her  uncle. 

"I  saw  you  did  not  believe  she  was  dead.  That  was 
enough  for  me." 

"  You  are  a  witch,  Ruth  1  I  never  said  a  word  one 
way  or  the  other." 


77/,'"  CATE-LODCn.  417 

"Which  showed  that  you  were  thinking,  and  made  mc 
think.  You  had  something  in  your  mind  wliich  you  did 
not  choose  to  tell  me  yet." 

"  Ah,  child  !"'  rejoined  her  uncle,  in  a  solemn  tone, 
"  how  difficult  it  is  to  hide  anything  !  I  don't  think  God 
wants  anything  hidden.  The  light  is  his  region,  his 
kingdom,  his  palace-home.  It  can  only  be  e\il,  outside 
or  in,  that  makes  us  turn  from  the  fullest  light  of  the 
universe.  Truly  one  must  be  born  again  to  enter  into 
the  kingdom  !" 

Juliet  heard  every  word,  heard  and  was  bewildered. 
The  place  in  which  she  had  sought  refuge,  was  plainly 
litde  better  than  a  kobold-cave,  yet  merely  from  listening 
to  the  talk  of  the  kobolds  without  half  understanding  it, 
she  had  begun  already  to  feel  a  sense  of  safety  stealing 
over  her,  such  as  she  had  never  been  for  an  instant 
aware  of  in  the  Old  House,  even  with  Dorothy  beside 
her. 

They  went  on  talking,  and  she  went  on  listening. 
They  were  so  much  her  inferiors  there  could  be  no 
impropriety  in  doing  so  ! 

"  The  poor  lady,"  she  heard  the  man-goblin  say,  "  has 
had  some  difference  with  her  husband  ;  but  whether  she 
wants  to  hide  from  him  or  from  the  whole  world  or  from 
both,  she  only  can  tell.  Our  business  is  to  take  care  of 
her,  and  do  for  her  what  God  may  lay  to  our  hand. 
What  she  desires  to  hide,  is  sacred  to  us.  We  have  no 
secrets  of  our  own,  Ruth,  and  have  the  more  room  for 
those  of  other  people  who  are  unhappy  enough  to  have 
any.  Let  God  reveal  what  he  pleases  :  there  are  many 
who  have  no  right  to  know  what  they  most  desire  to 
know.  She  needs  nursing,  poor  tiling  !  We  will  pray  to 
God  for  her." 

"But  how  shall  we  make  her  comfortable  in  such  a 
poor  litde  house?"  returned  Ruth.  "It  is  the  dearest 
place  in  the  world  to  me — but  how  will  she  feel  in  it  ?'' 

"  We  will  keep  her  warm  and  clean,"  answered  her 
uncle,  "  and  that  is  all  an  angel  would  require." 
E  E 


4i8  PAUL  FADER. 

"  An  angel  ! — yes,"  answered  Ruth  ;  "  for  angels  don't 
eat ;  or,  at  least,  if  they  do,  for  I  doubt  if  you  will  grant 
that  they  don't,  I  am  certain  they  are  not  so  hard  to 
please  as  some  people  down  here.  The  poor  dear  lady 
is  delicate — you  know  she  has  always  been—  and  I  am  not 
much  of  a  cook." 

"You  are  a  very  good  cook,  my  dear.  Perhaps  you  do 
not  know  a  great  many  dishes,  but  you  are  a  dainty  cook 
of  those  you  do  know.  Few  people  can  have  more 
need  than  we  to  be  careful  what  they  eat — we  have  got 
such  a  pair  of  troublesome  cranky  little  bodies  ;  and  if 
you  can  suit  them,  I  feel  sure  you  will  be  able  to  suit 
any  invalid  that  is  not  fastidious  by  nature  rather  than 
necessity." 

"  I  will  do  my  best;"  said  Ruth  cheerily,  comforted  by 
her  uncle's  confidence.  "  The  worst  is  that,  for  her  own 
sake,  I  must  not  get  a  girl  to  help  me." 

"  The  lady  will  help  you  with  her  own  room,"  said 
Polwarth.  "  I  have  a  shrewd  notion  that  it  is  only  the 
fine  ladies,  those  that  are  so  litde  of  ladies  that  they 
make  much  of  being  ladies,  who  mind  doing  things  with 
their  hands.  Now  you  must  go  and  make  her  some 
tea,  while  she  gets  into  bed.  She  is  sure  to  like  tea 
best." 

Juliet  retreated  noiselessly,  and  when  the  woman- 
gnome  entered  the  kitchen,  there  sat  the  disconsolate 
lady  where  she  had  left  her,  still  like  the  outcast  princess 
of  a  fairy-tale  :  she  had  walked  in  at  their  door,  and  they 
had  immediately  begun  to  arrange  for  her  stay,  and  the 
strangest  thing  to  Juliet  was  that  she  hardly  felt  it 
strange.  It  was  only  as  if  she  had  come  a  day  sooner 
than  she  was  expected — which  indeed  Avas  very  much 
the  case,  for  Polwarth  had  been  looking  forward  to  the 
possibilit)',  and  latterly  to  the  likelihood  of  her  becoming 
their  guest. 

"  Your  room  is  ready  now,"  said  Ruth,  approaching 
her  timidly,  and   looking   up  at  her  with  her  woman's 


THE  GATE-LODGE.  419 

childlike  face  on  the  body  of  a  cliild.  "  Will  you 
come  ?' 

Juliet  rose  and  followed  her  to  the  garret-room  with 
the  dormer  window,  in  which  Ruth  slept. 

"Will  you  please  get  into  bed  as  fast  as  you  can,"  .'-he 
said,  "  and  when  you  knock  on  the  floor  I  will  come  and 
take  away  your  clothes  and  get  them  dried.  Please  to 
wrap  this  new  blanket  round  you,  lest  the  cold  sheets 
should  give  you  a  chill.  They  are  well  aired,  though'. 
I  will  bring  you  a  hot  bottle,  and  some  tea.  Dinner 
will  be  ready  soon." 

So  saying  she  left  the  chamber  softly.  The  creak  of 
the  door  as  she  closed  it,  and  the  white  curtains  of  the 
bed  and  window,  reminded  Juliet  of  a  certain  room  she 
once  occupied  at  the  house  of  an  old  nurse,  where  she 
had  been  happier  than  ever  since  in  all  her  life,  until  her 
brief  bliss  with  Faber  :  she  burst  into  tears,  and  weeping 
undressed  and  got  into  bed.  There  the  dryness  and  the 
warmth  and  the  sense  of  safety  soothed  her  speedily ; 
and  with  the  comfort  crept  in  the  happy  thought  that 
here  she  lay  on  the  very  edge  of  the  high  road  to  Glaston, 
and  that  nothing  could  be  more  probable  than  that  she 
would  soon  see  her  husband  ride  past.  A\'ith  that  one 
hope  she  could  sit  at  a  window  watching  for  centuries  ! 
"O  Paul!  Paul!  my  Paul  1"  she  moaned.  "  If  I  could 
but  be  made  clean  again  for  you  !  I  would  willingly  be 
burned  at  the  stake,  if  the  fire  would  only  make  me  clean, 
for  the  chance  of  seeing  you  again  in  the  other  world  !" 
But  as  the  comfort  into  her  brain,  so  the  peace  of  her 
new  surroundings  stole  into  her  heart.  The  fancy  grew 
upon  her  that  she  was  in  a  fairy-tale,  in  which  she  must 
take  everything  as  it  came,  for  she  could  not  alter  the 
text.  Fear  vanished ;  neither  staring  eyes  nor  creeping 
pool  could  find  her  in  the  guardianship  of  the  benevolent 
goblins.  She  fell  fast  asleep ;  and  the  large  clear  gray 
eyes  of  the  little  woman  gnome  came  and  looked  at  her 
as  she  slept,  and  their  gaze  did  not  rouse  her.     Sofdy 

E  E  2 


420  PAUL  FABER. 

she  went,  and  came  again  ;  but,  allliough  dinner  was  then 
ready,  Ruth  knew  better  than  to  wake  her.  She  knew 
that  sleep  is  the  chief  nourisher  in  Ufe's  feast,  and  would 
not  withdraw  the  sacred  dish.  Her  uncle  said  sleep  was 
God's  contrivance  for  giving  man  the  help  he  could  not 
get  into  him  while  he  was  awake.  So  the  loving  gnomes 
had  their  dinner  together,  putting  aside  the  best  portions 
oi"  it  against  the  waking  of  the  beautiful  lady  lying  fast 
asleep  above. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 


THE  CORNER  OF  THE  BUTCHERS  SHOP. 


^LL  that  same  Sunday  morning,  the  minister 
and  Dorothy  had  of  course  plenty  of  work 
to  their  hand,  for  their  more  immediate 
neighbours  were  all  of  the  poor.  Their  own 
house,  although  situated  on  the  very  bank 
of  the  river,  was  in  no  worse  plight  than 
most  of  the  houses  in  the  town,  for  it  stood  upon  an  artifi- 
cial elevation ;  and  before  long,  while  it  had  its  lower  parts 
full  of  water  like  the  rest,  its  upper  rcoms  were  filled  with 
people  from  the  lanes  around.  But  Mr.  Drake's  heart  was 
in  the  Pottery,  for  he  was  anxious  as  to  the  suffi- 
ciency of  his  measures.  Many  of  the  neighbours,  driven 
from  their  homes,  had  betaken  themselves  to  his 
enclosure,  and  when  he  went,  he  found  the  salmon- 
tishers  still  carrying  families  thither.  He  set  out  at  once 
to  get  what  bread  he  could  from  the  bakers,  a  quantity 
of  meat  from  the  butcher,  cheese,  coffee,  and  tins  of 
biscuits  and  preserved  meat  from  the  grocers  :  all  within 
his  bounds  were  either  his  own  people  or  his  gucst^;, 
and  he  must  do  what  he  could  to  feed  them.  Tor  the 
first  time  he  felt  rich,  and  heartily  glad  and  grateful  that 
he  was.  He  could  please  God,  his  neighbour,  and  him- 
self all  at  once,  getting  no  end  of  good  out  of  the  slave 
of  which  the  unrighteous  make  a  god. 


422  PAUL  FABER. 

He  took  Dorothy  witli  him,  for  he  would  have  felt 
helpless  on  such  an  expedition  without  her  judgment ; 
and,  as  Lisbeth's  hands  were  more  than  full,  they  agreed 
it  was  better  to  take  Amanda.  Dorothy  was  far  from  com- 
fortable at  having  to  leave  Juliet  alone  all  day,  but  the 
possibility  of  her  being  compelled  to  omit  her  customary 
visit  had  been  contemplated  between  them,  and  she 
could  not  fail  to  understand  it  on  this  the  first  occasion. 
Anyhow,  better  could  not  be,  for  the  duty  at  home  was 
far  the  more  pressing.  That  day  she  showed  an  energy 
which  asionished  even  her  father.  Nor  did  she  fail  of 
her  reward.  She  received  insights  into  humanity  which 
grew  to  real  knowledge. — I  was  going  to  say  that,  next  to 
an  insight  into  the  heart  of  God,  an  insight  into  the  heart 
of  a  human  being  is  the  most  precious  of  things ;  but 
when  I  think  of  it — what  is  the  latter  but  the  former? 
I  will  say  this  at  least,  that  no  one  reads  the  human  heart 
well,  to  whom  the  reading  reveals  nothing  of  the  heart 
of  the  Father.  The  wire-gauze  of  sobering  trouble  over 
the  flaming  flower  of  humanity,  enabled  Dorothy  to  see 
right  down  into  its  fire-heart,  and  distinguish  there  the 
loveliest  hues  and  shades.  Where  the  struggle  for  own 
life  is  in  abeyance,  and  the  struggle  for  other  life 
active,  there  the  heart  that  God  thought  out  and  means 
to  perfect,  the  pure  love-heart  of  his  humans,  reveals 
itself  truly,  and  is  gracious  to  behold.  For  then  the 
v.'ill  of  the  individual  sides  divinely  with  his  divine  im- 
pulse, and  his  heart  is  unified  in  good.  When  the  will 
of  the  man  sides  perfectly  with  the  holy  impulses  in  him, 
then  all  is  well ;  for  then  his  mind  is  one  with  the  mind 
of  his  maker ;  God  and  man  are  one. 

Amanda  shrieked  Avith  delight  when  she  was  carried  to 
the  boat,  and  went  on  shrieking  as  she  floated  over 
flower-beds  and  box-borders,  caught  now  and  then 
in  bushes  and  overhanging  branches.  But  the  great 
fierce  current,  ridging  the  middle  of  the  brown  lake 
as  it  followed  the  tide  out  to  the  ocean,  fright- 
ened her  a  little.     The  features  of  the  flat  country  were 


THE  CORNER  OF  THE  BUTCHER'S  SHOP.       423 

all  but  obliterated;  trees  only  and  houses  and  corn- 
stacks  stood  out  of  the  water,  while  in  the  direction  of 
the  sea  where  were  only  meadows,  all  indication  of  land 
had  vanished  ;  one  wide  brown  level  was  everywhere, 
with  a  great  rushing  serpent  of  water  in  the  middle  of  it. 
Amanda  clapped  her  little  hands  in  ecstasy.  Never  was 
there  such  a  child  for  exuberance  of  joy !  her  aunt 
thought.  Or,  if  there  were  others  as  glad,  where  were 
any  who  let  the  light  of  their  gladness  so  shine  before 
men,  invading,  conquering  them  as  she  did  with  the  rush 
of  her  joy  !  IJorothy  held  fast  to  the  skirt  of  her  frock, 
fearing  every  instant  the  explosive  creature  would  jump 
overboard  in  elemental  sympathy.  Lut,  poled  carefully 
along  by  Mr.  Drake,  they  reached  in  safety  a  certain  old 
shed,  and  getting  in  at  the  door  of  die  loft  where  a  cow- 
keeper  stored  his  hay  and  straw,  through  that  descended 
into  the  heart  of  the  Pottery,  which  its  owner  was  de- 
lighted to  find — not  indeed  dry  under  foot  with  such  a 
rain  flilling,  but  free  from  lateral  invasion. 

His  satisfaction,  however,  was  of  Lhcit  duration. 
Dorothy  went  into  one  of  the  nearer  dwellings,  and  he 
was  crossing  an  open  space  with  Amanda,  to  get  help 
from  a  certain  cottage  in  unloading  die  boat  and  dis- 
tributing its  cargo,  when  he  caught  sight  of  a  bubbling 
pool  in  the  middle  of  it.  Alas !  it  was  from  a  drain, 
whose  covering  had  burst  with  the  pressure  from  within. 
He  shouted  for  help.  Out  hurried  men,  women,  and 
children  on  all  sides.  For  a  few  moments  he  was 
entii-ely  occupied  in  giving  orders,  and  let  Amanda's 
hand  go  :  everybody  knew  her,  and  there  seemed  no 
worse  mischief  within  reach  for  her  than  dabbling  in 
the  pools,  to  which  she  was  still  devoted. 

Two  or  three  spades  were  soon  plymg  busily,  to  make 
the  breach  a  little  wider,  while  men  ran  to  bring  clay  and 
stones  from  one  of  the  condemned  cottages.  Suddenly 
arose  a  great  cry,  and  the  crowd  scattered  in  all  direc 
tions.  The  wall  of  defence  at  the  corner  of  the  butcher's 
shop  had  given  way,  and  a  torrent  was  galloping  across 


424  PAUL  FABER. 

the  Potter)-,  straiglit  for  the  spot  where  the  water  was 
rising  from  the  drain.  Amanda,  gazing  in  wonder  at  the 
flight  of  the  people  about  her,  stood  right  in  its  course, 
but  took  no  heed  of  it,  or  never  saw  it  coming.  It 
caught  her,  swept  her  away,  and  tumbled  with  her,  foam- 
ing and  roaring,  into  the  deep  foundation  of  v.'hich  I  have 
spoken.  lier  father  had  just  missed  her,  and  was 
looking  a  little  anxiously  round,  when  a  shriek  of  horror 
and  fear  burst  from  the  people,  and  they  rushed  to  the 
hole.  \Vithout  a  word  spoken  he  knew  Amanda  was  in 
it.  He  darted  through  them,  scattering  men  and  women 
in  all  directions,  but  pulling  off  his  coat  as  he  ran. 

Though  getting  old,  he  was  far  from  feeble,  and  had 
been  a  strong  swimmer  in  his  youth.  But  he  plunged 
heedlessly,  and  the  torrent,  still  falling  some  little  height, 
caught  him,  and  carried  him  almost  to  the  bottom.  When 
he  came  to  the  top,  he  looked  in  vain  for  any  sign  of  the 
child.  The  crowd  stood  breathless  on  the  brink.  No 
one  had  seen  her,  though  all  eyes  were  staring  into 
the  tumult.  He  dived,  swam  about  beneath,  groping  in 
the  frightful  opacity,  but  still  in  vain.  Then  down 
through  the  water  came  a  shout,  and  he  shot  to  the 
surface — to  see  only  something  white  vanish.  But  the 
recoil  of  the  torrent  from  below  caught  her,  and  just  as 
he  was  diving  again,  brought  her  up  almost  within  arm's- 
length  of  him.  He  darted  to  her,  clasped  her,  and 
gained  the  brink.  He  could  not  have  got  out,  though 
the  ca\-ity  was  now  brim-full,  but  ready  hands  liad  him 
in  safety  in  a  moment.  Fifty  arms  were  stretched  to  take 
the  child,  but  not  even  to  Dorothy  would  he  yield  her. 
Ready  to  fall  at  every  step,  he  blundered  through  the 
water,  which  now  spread  over  the  whole  place,  and 
followed  by  Dorothy  in  mute  agony,  was  making  for  tlie 
shed  behind  which  lay  his  boat,  when  one  of  the  salmon 
fishers,  who  had  brought  his  coble  in  at  the  gap,  crossed 
them,  and  took  them  up.  INIr.  Drake  dropped  into  the 
bottom  of  the  boat,  with  the  child  pressed  to  his  bosom. 
He  could  not  speak. 


THE  CORNER  OF  'I HE  BUTCHERS  SHOP.      425 

"To  Doctor  Faber's!  For  the  child's  life!"  said 
Dorothy,  and  the  fisher  rowed  like  a  madman. 

Faber  had  just  come  in.  He  undressed  the  child  with 
his  own  hands,  rubbed  her  dry,  and  did  everything  to 
initiate  respiration.  For  a  long  time  all  seemed  useless, 
but  he  persisted  beyond  tb.e  utmost  verge  of  hope.  Mr. 
Drake  and  Dorothy  stood  in  mute  dismay.  Neither  was 
quite  a  child  of  God  )'et,  and  in  the  old  man  a  rebellious 
spirit  murmured  :  it  v^■as  hard  that  he  should  have  evil 
for  good  !  that  his  endeavours  for  his  people  should  be 
the  loss  of  his  child  ! 

Faber  was  on  the  point  of  ceasing  his  efforts  in  utter 
despair,  when  he  thouglit  he  felt  a  slight  motion  of  the 
diaphragm,  and  renewed  them  eagerly.  She  began  to 
breathe.  Suddenly  she  opened  her  eyes,  looked  at  him 
for  a  moment,  then  with  a  smile  closed  them_  again. 
To  the  watchers  heaven  itself  seemed  to  open  in  that 
smile.  But  Faber  dropped  the  tiny  form,  started  a  pace 
backward  from  the  bed,  and  stood  staring  aghast.  The 
next  moment  he  threw  the  blankets  over  the  child, 
turned  away,  and  almost  staggered  from  the  room.  In 
his  surgery  he  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  brandy, 
swallowed  it  neat,  sat  down  and  held  his  head  in  his 
hands.  An  instant  after,  he  v.-as  by  the  child's  side  again, 
feeling  her  pulse,  and  rubbing  her  limbs  under  the 
blankets. 

The  minister's  hands  had  turned  blue,  and  he  had 
begun  to  shiver,  but  a  smile  of  sweetest  delight  was  on 
his  face. 

"God  bless  me  1"  cried  the  doctor,  "you've  got  no 
coat  on  !  and  you  are  drenched  !  I  never  saw  anything 
but  the  child  !" 

"  He  plunged  into  the  horrible  hole  after  her,"  said 
Dorothy.  "How  wicked  of  me  to  forget  him  for  any 
child  under  the  sun  !  He  got  her  out  all  by  himself, 
Mr.  Faber  ! — Gome  home,  father  dear.— I  will  comeback 
and  see  to  Amanda  as  soon  as  I  have  got  him  to  bed." 
"  Yes,  Dorothy ;  let  us  go,"  said  the  minister,  and  put 


4^6  PAUL  FABER. 

his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  His  teeth  chattered  and  his 
hand  shook. 

The  doctor  rang  the  bell  violently. 

"  Neither  of  you  shall  leave  this  house  to-night. — Takfc 
a  hot  bath  to  the  spare  bedroom,  and  remove  the  sheets," 
he  said  to  the  housekeeper,  who  had  answered  the 
summons.  "  My  dear  sir,"  he  went  on,  turning  again  to 
the  minister,  "  you  must  get  into  the  blankets  at  once. 
How  careless  of  me  !  The  child's  life  will  be  dear  at  the 
cost  of  yours." 

"  You  have  brought  back  the  soul  of  the  child  to  me, 
Mr.  Faber,"  said  the  minister,  trembling,  "and  I  can 
never  thank  you  eiiough." 

"  There  won't  be  much  to  thank  me  for,  if  you  have  to 
go  instead. — Miss  Drake,  while  I  give  your  father  his 
balh,  you  must  go  with  Mrs.  Roberts,  and  put  on  dry 
clothes.     Then  you  will  be  able  to  nurse  him." 

As  soon  as  Dorothy,  whose  garments  Juliet  had  bc.n 
wearing  so  long,  was  dressed  in  some  of  hers,  she  went  to 
her  father's  room.  He  was  already  in  bed,  but  it  was 
long  before  tliey  could  get  him  warm.  Then  he  grew 
burning  hot,  and  all  night  was  talking  in  troubled  dreams. 
Once  Dorothy  heard  him  say,  as  if  he  had  been  talking 
to  God  face  to  face  :  "  O  my  God,  if  I  had  but  once  seen 
thee,  I  do  not  think  I  could  ever  have  mistrusted  thee. 
But  I  could  never  be  quite  sure." 

The  morning  brought  lucidity.  How  many  dawns  a 
morning  brings  !  His  first  words  were  "  How  goes  it 
with  the  child  ?"  Having  heard  that  she  had  had  a  good 
night,  and  was  almost  well,  he  turned  over,  and  fell  fast 
asleep.  Then  Dorothy,  who  had  been  by  his  bed  all 
night,  resumed  her  own  garments,  and  went  to  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 


HERE     AND     THERE. 


gate,   and 
and  water. 


HE  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  flood  was  grcaUy 
diminished.  It  was  possible,  she  judged, 
to  reach  the  Old  House,  and,  after  a  hasty 
breakfast,  she  set  out,  leaving  her  father  to 
Mrs.  Roberts's  care.  The  flood  left  her  no 
choice  but  go  by  the  high  road  to  Polwarth's 
then  she  had  often  to  wade  through  mud 
The  moment  she  saw  the  gatekeeper,  she 
knew  somehow  by  his  face  that  Juliet  was  in  the  lodge. 
When  she  entered,  she  saw  that  already  her  new  circum- 
stances were  working  upon  her  for  peace.  The  spiritual 
atmosphere,  so  entirely  human,  the  sense  that  she  was 
not  and  would  not  be  alone,  the  strange  talk  which  they 
held  openly  before  her,  the  food  they  coaxed  her  to  eat, 
the  whole  surrounding  of  thoughts  and  things  as  they 
should  be,  was  operating  far  more  potently  than  could  be 
measured  by  her  understanding  of  their  effects,  or  even  con- 
sciousness of  their  influences.  She  still  looked  down  upon 
the  dwarfs,  condescended  to  them,  had  a  vague  feeling 
that  she  honoured  them  by  accepting  their  ministrations — 
for  which,  one  day,  she  would  requite  them  handsomely. 
Not  the  less  had  she  all  the  time  a  feeling  that  she  was 
in  the  society  of  ministering  spirits  of  God,  good  and  safe 


428  PA  UL  FADER. 

and  true.  From  the  Old  House  to  the  cottage  was  from 
the  Inferno  to  the  Purgatorio,  across  whose  borders  faint 
wafts  from  Paradise  now  and  tlien  strayed  wandering. 
Without  knowing  it,  she  had  begun  ah-eady  to  love  the 
queer  little  Avoman,  ^^'ith  the  wretched  body,  the  fine 
head,  and  gentle  suffering  face ;  while  the  indescribable 
awe,  into  which  her  aversion  to  the  kobold,  with  his 
pigeon-chest,  his  wheezing  breath,  his  great  head,  and 
his  big,  still  face,  v.-hich  to  such  eyes  as  the  curateV, 
seemed  to  be  looking  into  both  worlds  at  once,  had 
passed  over,  bore  no  unimportant  part  in  that  portion  of 
her  discipline  here  commenced.  One  of  the  loftiest 
spirits  of  the  middle  earth,  it  was  long  before  she  had  quite 
ceased  to  regard  him  as  a  power  of  the  nether  world, 
partly  human,  and  at  once  something  less  and  some- 
thing more.  Yet  even  already  she  was  beginning  to  feel 
at  home  with  them!  True,  the  world  in  which  they 
really  lived  was  above  her  spiritual  vision,  as  beyond 
her  intellectual  comprehension,  yet  not  the  less  was  the 
air  around  them  the  essential  air  of  homeness;  for  the 
truths  in  which  their  spirits  lived  and  breathed,  were 
the  same  which  lie  at  the  root  of  every  feeling  of  home- 
safety  in  the  world,  which  make  the  bliss  of  the  child 
in  his  mother's  bed,  the  bliss  of  young  beasts  in  their 
nests,  of  birds  under  their  mother's  wing.  The  love 
which  enclosed  her  was  far  too  great  for  her — as  the 
heaven  of  the  mother's  face  is  beyond  the  under- 
standing of  the  new-born  child  over  whom  she  bends ; 
but  that  mother's  face  is  nevertheless  the  child's  joy 
and  peace.  She  did  not  yet  recognize  it  as  love, 
saw  only  the  ministration  ;  but  it  was  what  she  sorely 
needed  :  she  said  the  sort  of  thing  suited  her,  and  at 
once  began  to  fall  in  with  it.  What  it  cost  her  enter- 
tainers, with  organization  as  delicate  as  uncouth,  in  the 
mere  matter  of  bodily  labour,  she  had  not  an  idea- 
imagined  indeed  that  she  gave  them  no  trouble  at  all, 
because,  having  overheard  the  conversation  between 
them  upon  her  arrival,  she  did  herself  a  part  of  thewoil; 


IIKRR  AND  T111-.RE.  429 

re(ii;ircd  for  her  comfort  in  her  own  room.  She  never 
saw  tiie  poor  quarters  to  which  Rutli  for  her  sake  had 
banished  herself — never  perceived  the  fact  that  there  was 
nothing  good  enough  wherewith  to  repay  them  except 
worshipful  gratitude,  love,  admiration,  and  submission — 
feelings  she  could  not  even  have  imagined  possible  in 
regard  to  such  inferiors. 

And  now  Dorothy  had  not  a  little  to  say  to  Juliet 
about  her  husband.  In  telling  what  had  taken  place, 
however,  she  had  to  hear  many  more  questions  than  she 
was  able  to  answer. 

"  Does  he  really  believe  me  dead,  Dorothy?"  was  one 
of  them. 

"  I  do  not  believe  there  is  one  person  in  Glaston  who 
knows  what  he  thinks,"  answered  Dorothy.  "  I  have 
not  heard  of  his  once  opening  his  mouth  on  the  subject. 
He  is  just  as  silent  now  as  he  used  to  be  ready  to  talk." 

"  My  poor  Paul !"  murmured  Juliet,  and  hid  her  face 
and  wept. 

Indeed  not  a  soul  in  Glaston  or  elsewhere  knew  a 
single  thought  he  had.  Certain  mysterious  advertise- 
ments in  the  county  paper,  were  imagined  by  some  to  be 
his  and  to  refer  to  his  wife.  Some,  as  the  body  had 
never  been  seen,  did  begin  to  doubt  whether  she  was  dead. 
Some,  on  the  other  hand,  hinted  that  her  husband  had 
himself  made  away  with  her — for,  they  argued,  what  could 
be  easier  to  a  doctor,  and  why,  else,  did  he  make  no 
search  forthebody?  To  Dorothy  this  supposed  fact  seemed 
to  indicate  a  belief  that  she  was  not  dead — perhaps  a  hope 
that  she  would  sooner  betray  herself  if  he  manifested  no 
anxiety  to  find  her.    But  she  said  nothing  of  this  to  Juliet. 

Her  nevrs  of  him  was  the  more  acceptable  to  the 
famished  heart  of  the  wife,  that,  from  his  great  kindness 
to  them  all,  and  especially  from  the  perseverance  which 
had  restored  to  them  their  little  Amanda,  Dorothy's  heart 
had  so  wanned  towards  liim,  that  she  could  not  help 
speaking  of  him  in  a  tone  far  more  agreeable  to  Juliet 
than  hitherto  she  had  been  able  to  use.     His  pale,  worn 


430  PAUL  FABER. 

look,  and  the  tokens  of  trouble  throughout  his  demeanour, 
all  more  evident  upon  nearer  approach,  had  also  wrought 
upon  her ;  and  she  so  described  his  care,  anxiety,  and 
tenderness  over  Amanda,  that  Juliet  became  jealous  of 
the  cliild,  as  she  would  have  been  of  any  dog  she  saw 
him  caress.  When  all  was  told,  and  she  was  weary  of 
asking  questions  to  which  there  were  no  answers,  she  fell 
back  in  her  chair  with  a  sigh  :  alas,  she  was  no  nearer  to 
him  for  the  hearing  of  her  ears  !  While  she  lived  she 
was  open  to  his  scorn,  and  deserved  it  the  more  that  she 
had  seemed  to  die  !  She  must  die  ;  for  then  at  last  a  little 
love  would  revive  in  his  heart,  ere  he  died  too  and 
followed  her  nowhither.  Only  first  she  must  leave  him 
his  child  to  plead  for  her : — she  used  sometimes  to 
catch  herself  praying  that  the  infant  might  be  like  her. 

"Look  at  ray  jacket !"  said  Dorothy.  It  was  one  of 
Juliet's,  and  she  hoped  to  make  her  smile. 

"Did  Paul  see  you  with  my  clothes  on?"  she  said 
angrily. 

Dorothy  started  with  the  pang  of  hurt  that  shot  through 
her.  But  the  compassionate  smile  on  the  face  of  Polwarth, 
who  had  just  entered,  and  had  heard  the  last  article  of  the 
conversation,  at  once  set  her  right.  For  not  only  was  he 
capable  of  immediate  sympathy  with  emotion,  but  of  re- 
vealing at  once  that  he  understood  its  cause.  Ruth,  who 
had  come  into  the  room  behind  him,  second  only  to  her 
uncle  in  the  insight  of  love,  followed  his  look  by  asking 
Dorothy  if  she  might  go  to  the  Old  House,  as  soon  as  the 
weather  permitted,  to  fetch  some  clothes  for  jNIrs.  Faber, 
who  had  brouglit  nothing  with  her  but  what  she  wore  ; 
whereupon  Dorothy,  partly  for  leisure  to  fight  her  temper, 
said  she  would  go  herself,  and  went.  But  when  she 
returned,  she  gave  the  bag  to  Ruth  at  the  door,  and  went 
away  without  seeing  Juliet  again.  She  was  getting  tired 
of  her  selfishness,  she  said  to  herself.  Dorotliy  was  not 
herself  yet  perfect  in  love — which  beareth  all  things, 
believeth  all  things,  hopeth  all  things,  endureth  all 
things. 


HERE  AND  THERE.  43I 

Faber  too  had  been  up  all  night — by  the  bedside  oi 
the  little  Amanda.  She  scarcely  needed  such  close 
attendance,  for  she  slept  soundly,  and  was  hardly  at  all 
feverish.  Four  or  five  times  in  the  course  of  the  night, 
he  turned  down  the  bed-clothes  to  examine  her  body, 
as  if  he  feared  some  injury  not  hitherto  apparent.  Of 
such  there  was  no  sign. 

In  his  youth  he  had  occupied  himself  much  with  com- 
parative anatomy  and  physiology.  liis  predilection  for 
these  studies  had  greatly  sharpened  his  observation, 
and  he  noted  many  things  that  escaped  the  eyes  of 
better  than  ordinary  observers.  Amongst  other  kinds  of 
things  to  which  he  kept  his  eyes  open,  he  was  very  quick 
at  noting  instances  of  the  strange  persistency  with  which 
Nature  perpetuates  minute  peculiarities,  carrying  them  on 
from  generation  to  generation.  Occupied  with  Amanda, 
a  certain  imperfection  in  one  of  the  curves  of  the  outer 
ear  attracted  his  attention.  It  is  as  rare  to  see  a  perfect 
ear  as  to  see  a  perfect  form,  and  the  varieties  of  unfinished 
curves  are  many;  but  this  imperfection  was  very 
peculiar.  At  the  same  time  it  was  so  slight,  that  not  even 
the  eye  of  a  lover,  none  save  that  of  a  man  of  science, 
alive  to  minutest  indications,  would  probably  have  seen 
it.  The  sight  of  it  startled  Faber  not  a  little  :  it  was  the 
second  instance  of  the  peculiarity  that  had  come  to  his 
knowledge.  It  gave  him  a  new  idea  to  go  upon,  and 
when  the  child  suddenly  opened  her  eyes,  he  saw  another 
face  looking  at  him  out  of  hers.  The  idea  then  haunted 
him  ;  and  whether  it  was  that  it  assimilated  fixcts  to  itself, 
or  that  the  signs  were  present,  further  search  afforded  what 
was  to  him  confirmation  of  the  initiatory  suspicion. 

Notwithstanding  the  state  of  feebleness  in  which  he 
found  Mr.  Drake  the  next  morning,  he  pressed  him  with 
question  upon  qi^estion,  amounting  to  a  thorough  cross- 
examination  concerning  Amanda's  liistory,  undeterred  by 
the  fact  that,  whether  itself  merely  bored,  or  its  nature 
annoyed  him,  his  patient  plainly  disrelished  his  catechiz- 
ing.    It  was  a  subject  which,  as  his  love  to  the  child 


432  rAL'L  FADER. 

increased,  had  grown  less  and  less  agreeable  to  Mr 
Drake  :  slie  was  to  him  so  entirely  his  own  that  he  liad 
not  the  least  desire  to  find  oat  anything  about  her,  to 
learn  a  single  fact  or  hear  a  single  conjecture  to  remind 
him  that  she  was  not  in  every  sense  as  well  as  the  best, 
his  own  daughter.  He  was  therefore  not  a  little  annoyed 
at  the  persistency  of  the  doctor's  questioning,  but,  being 
a  courteous  man,  and  under  endless  obligation  to  him 
for  the  very  child's  sake  as  well  as  his  own,  he  combated 
disinclination,  and  with  success,  acquainting  the  doctor 
with  every  point  he  knew  concerning  Amanda.  Then 
first  the  doctor  grew  capable  of  giving  his  attention  to 
the  minister  himself;  wliose  son  if  he  had  been,  he  could 
hardly  have  shown  him  greater  devotion.  A  wliole 
week  passed  before  he  would  allow  him  to  go  home. 
Dorothy  waited  upon  him,  and  Amanda  ran  about  the 
house.  The  doctor  and  she  had  been  friends  from  the 
first,  and  now,  when  he  was  at  home,  there  was  never 
any  doubt  where  Amanda  was  to  be  found. 

The  same  day  on  which  the  Drakes  left  him,  Fabcr 
started  by  the  night-train  for  London,  and  was  absent 
three  days. 

Amanda  was  now  perfectly  well,  but  Mr.  Drake  con- 
tinued poorly.  Dorothy  was  anxious  to  get  him  away  from 
the  river-side,  and  proposed  putting  the  workmen  into  the 
Old  House  at  once.  To  this  he  readily  consented,  but 
would  not  listen  to  her  suggestion  that  in  the  meantime 
he  should  go  to  some  watering-place.  He  would  be  quite 
well  in  a  day  or  two,  and  there  was  no  rest  for  him,  he 
said,  until  the  work  so  sadly  bungled  was  properly  done. 
He  did  not  believe  his  plans  were  defective,  and  could 
not  help  doubting  whether  they  had  been  faithfully 
carried  out.  But  the  builder,  a  man  of  honest  repute, 
protested  also  that  he  could  not  account  for  the  yielding 
of  the  wall,  except  he  had  had  the  mishap  to  build 
over  some  deep  drain,  or  old  well,  which  was  not  likely, 
so  close  to  the  river.  Ho  oftered  to  put  it  up  again  at 
his  own  expense,  when  perhaps  they  might  discover  the 
cause  of  the  catastrophe. 


HERE  AND  THERE.  433 

Sundry  opinions  and  more  than  one  rumour  were 
current  among  the  neighbours.  At  last  they  were  mostly 
divided  into  two  parties,  the  one  professing  the  convic- 
tion that  the  butcher,  who  was  known  to  have 
some  grudge  at  the  minister,  had,  under  the  testudo- 
sheUer  of  his  slaughter-house,  undermined  the  wall ;  the 
other  indignantly  asserting  that  the  absurdity  had  no 
foundation  except  in  the  evil  thoughts  of  churchmen 
towards  dissenters,  being  in  fact  a  wicked  slander.  When 
the  suggestion  reached  the  minister's  ears,  he,  knowing 
the  butcher,  and  believing  the  builder,  was  inclined  to 
institute  investigations ;  but  as  such  a  course  was  not 
likely  to  lead  the  butcher  to  repentance,  he  resolved  in- 
stead to  consult  with  him  how  his  premises  might  be 
included  in  the  defence.  The  butcher  chuckled  with 
conscious  success,  and  for  some  months  always  chuckled 
when  sharpening  his  knife ;  but  by  and  by  the  coals  of 
fire  began  to  scorch,  and  went  on  scorching — the  more 
that  Mr.  Drake  very  soon  became  his  landlord,  and  volun- 
tarily gave  him  several  advantages.  But  he  gave  strict 
orders  that  there  should  be  no  dealings  with  him.  It 
was  one  thing,  he  said,  to  be  good  to  the  sinner,  and 
another  to  pass  by  his  fault  without  confession,  treating 
it  like  a  mere  personal  affair  which  might  be  forgotten. 
Before  the  butcher  died,  there  was  not  a  man  who  knew 
him  who  did  not  believe  he  had  undermined  the  \\all. 
He  left  a  will  assigning  all  his  property  to  trustees,  for 
the  building  of  a  new  chapel,  but  when  his  affairs  came 
to  be  looked  into,  there  was  hardly  enough  to  pay  his 
debts. 

The  minister  was  now  subject  to  a  sort  of  ague,  to 
which  he  paid  far  too  little  heed.  When  Dorothy  was  not 
immediately  looking  after  him,  he  would  slip  out  in  any 
weather  to  see  how  things  were  going  on  in  the  Pottery. 
It  was  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  his  health  did  not  im- 
prove. But  he  could  not  be  induced  to  regard  his  con- 
dition as  at  all  serious. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 


THE    MINISTERS    STUDY. 


ffiLEN  was  in  the  way  of  now  and  then  writing 
music  to  any  song  that  specially  took  her 
^  II  -^  fancy — not  with  foolish  hankering  after  pub- 
$  ISfl  m  li^'''-^io")  but  for  the  pleasure  of  brooding  in 
^^R'^^S  nielody  upon  the  words,  and  singing  them 
to  her  husband.  One  day  he  brought  her 
a  few  stanzas,  by  an  unknown  poet,  which,  he  said,  seemed 
to  have  in  them  a  slightly  new  element.  They  pleased 
her  more  than  him,  and  began  at  once  to  sing  them- 
selves. No  sooner  was  her  husband  out  of  the  room  than 
she  sat  down  to  her  piano  with  them.  Before  the  even- 
ing, she  had  written  to  them  an  air  wiih  a  simple  accom- 
paniment. When  she  now  sung  the  verses  to  him,  he 
told  her,  to  her  immense  delight,  that  he  understood  and 
liked  them  far  better.  The  next  morning,  having  carried 
out  one  or  two  little  suggestions  he  had  made,  she  was 
singing  them  by  herself  in  the  drawing-room,  when  Faber, 
to  whom  she  had  sent  because  one  of  her  servants  was 
ill,  entered.  He  made  a  sign  begging  her  to  continue, 
and  she  finished  the  song. 

"  AVill  you  let  me  see  the  words,"  he  said. 

She  handed  them  to  him.  He  read  them,  laid  down 
the  manuscript,  and,  requesting  to  be  taken  to  his  patient, 


THE  MINISTER'S  STUDY.  435 

turned  to  the  door.     Perhaps  he  thought  she  had  laid  a 
music-snare  for  him. 
The  verses  were  these  : 

A  YEAR  SONG. 

Sighing  above, 

Rustling  below, 
Through  the  wooils 

The  winds  go. 
Beneath,  dead  crowds  ; 

Above,  life  bare  ; 
And  the  besom  winds 

Sweep  the  air. 
Heart,  leave  thy  woe  ; 
Let  the  dead  things  go. 

Through  the  brown  leaves 

Gold  stars  push  j 
A  mist  of  green 

Veils  the  bush. 
Here  a  twitter, 

There  a  croak  ! 
They  are  coming — 

The  spring-folk  1 
Heart,  be  not  dumb  ; 
Let  the  live  things  come. 

Through  the  beech 

The  winds  go, 
With  a  long  speech, 

Loud  and  slo\\'. 
The  grass  is  fine. 

And  soft  to  lie  in  ; 
The  sun  doth  shine 

The  blue  sky  in. 
Heart,  be  alive  ; 
.;  Z<?/  the  nexv  things  thrive. 

'  Round  again  ! 

Here  now — 
A  rimy  fruit 

On  a  bare  bough  1 
There  the  winter, 
And  the  snow  ; 
And  a  sighing  ever 
To  fall  and  go  ! 
Heart,  thy  hotir  shall  be  ; 
Thy  dead  will  comfort  tlice. 
F  F  2 


436  PAUL  FABER, 

Faber  was  still  folded  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  song 
when,  from  the  curate's  door,  he  arrived  at  the  minis- 
ter's, resolved  to  make  that  morning  a  certain  disclosure 
— one  he  would  gladly  have  avoided,  but  felt  bound  in 
honour  to  make.  The  minister  grew  pale  as  he  listened, 
but  held  his  peace.  Not  until  the  point  came  at  which 
he  found  himself  personally  concerned,  did  he  utter  a 
syllable. 

I  will  in  my  own  words  give  the  substance  of  the 
doctor's  communication,  stating  the  facts  a  little  more 
fairly  to  him  than  his  pride  would  allow  him  to  put  them 
in  his  narrative. 

Paul  Faber  was  a  student  of  St.  Bartholomew's,  and 
during  some  time  held  there  the  office  of  assistant  house- 
surgeon.  Soon  after  his  appointment,  he  being  then  three 
and  twenty,  a  young  woman  was  taken  into  one  of  the 
wards,  in  whom  he  gradually  grew  much  interested.  Her 
complaint  caused  her  much  suffering,  but  was.  more 
tedious  than  dangerous. 

Attracted  by  her  sweet  looks,  but  more  by  her  patience, 
and  the  gratitude  with  which  she  received  the  attention 
shown  her,  he  began  to  talk  to  her  a  little,  especially 
during  a  slight  operation  tliat  had  to  be  not  unfrequently 
performed.  Then  he  came  to  giving  her  books  to  read, 
and  was  often  charmed  with  the  truth  and  simplicity  of 
the  remarks  she  would  make.  She  had  been  earning  her 
living  as  a  clerk,  had  no  friends  in  London,  and  there- 
fore no  place  to  betake  herself  to  in  her  illness  but  the 
hospital.  The  day  she  left  it,  in  the  simplicity  of  her 
heart,  and  with  much  timidity,  she  gave  him  a  chain  she 
had  made  for  him  of  her  hair.  On  the  ground  of  supple- 
mentary attention,  partly  desirable,  partly  a  ])retcxt,  but 
unassociated  with  any  evil  intent,  he  visited  her  after  in 
her  lodging.  The  joy  of  her  face,  the  light  of  her  eyes 
when  he  appeared,  was  enchanting  to  him.  She  pleased 
every  gentle  clement  of  his  nature ;  her  worship  flattered 
him,  her  confidence   bewitched   him.     His  feelings  to- 


THE  MINISTER'S  STUDY.  437 

wards  her  were  such  that  he  never  doubted  he  was  her 
friend.  He  did  her  no  end  of  kindnesses ;  taught  her 
much  ;  gave  her  good  advice  as  to  her  behaviour,  and 
the  dangers  she  was  in ;  would  have  protected  her  from 
every  enemy,  real  and  imaginary,  while  all  the  time, 
undesignedly,  he  was  depriving  her  of  the  very  nerve  of 
self-defence.  He  still  gave  her  books — and  good  books 
— Carlyle  even,  and  Tennyson  ;  read  poetry  with  her,  and 
taught  her  to  read  aloud ;  went  to  her  chapel  with  her 
sometimes  of  a  Sunday  evening — for  he  was  then,  so  he 
said,  and  so  he  imagined,  a  thorough  believer  in  revela- 
tion. He  took  her  to  the  theatre,  to  pictures,  to  con- 
certs, taking  every  care  of  her  health,  her  manners,  her 
principles.  But  one  enemy  he  forgot  to  guard  her  against : 
how  is  a  man  to  protect  even  the  woman  he  loves  from 
the  hidden  god  of  his  idolatry— his  own  grand  con- 
temptible self? 

It  is  needless  to  set  the  foot  of  narration  upon  every 
step  of  the  slow- descending  stair.  ^Vith  all  his  tender 
feelings  and  generous  love  of  his  kind,  Paul  Faber  had 
not  yet  learned  the  simplest  lesson  of  humanity — that  he 
who  would  not  be  a  murderer,  must  be  his  brother's 
keeper — still  more  his  sister's,  protecting  every  woman 
first  of  all  from  himself — from  every  untruth  in  him,  chiefly 
from  every  unhallowed  approach  of  his  lower  nature, 
from  everything  that  calls  itself  love  and  is  but  its  black 
shadow,  its  demon  ever  murmuring  /  love,  that  it  may 
devour.  The  priceless  reward  of  such  honesty  is  the 
power  to  love  better ;  but  let  no  man  insult  his  nature 
by  imagining  himself  noble  for  so  carrying  himself  As 
soon  let  him  think  himself  noble  that  he  is  no  swindler. 
Doubtless  Faber  said  to  himself  as  v.-ell  as  to  her,  and 
said  it  yet  oftener  when  the  recoil  of  his  selfishness 
struck  upon  the  door  of  his  conscience  and  roused  Don 
Worm,  that  he  would  be  true  to  her  for  ever.  But  what 
did  he  mean  by  the  words?  Did  he  know  ?  Had  they 
any  sense  of  which  he  would  not  have  been  ashamed 
even  before  the  girl  herself?    Would  such  truth  as  he 


438  PAUL  FABER. 

contemplated  make  of  him  her  hiding-place  from  the 
wind,  her  covert  from  the  tempest?  He  never  even 
thought  whether  to  marry  her  or  not,  never  vowed  even 
in  his  heart  not  to  marry  another.  All  he  could  have 
said  was,  that  at  the  time  he  had  no  intention  of  marrying 
another,  and  that  he  had  the  intention  of  keeping  her  for 
himself  indefinitely,  Avhich  may  be  all  the  notion  some 
people  have  of  eternally.  But  things  went  well  with  them, 
and  they  seemed  to  themselves,  notwithstanding  the  tears 
shed  by  one  of  them  in  secret,  only  the  better  for  the 
relation  between  them. 

At  length  a  child  was  born.  The  heart  of  a  woman 
is  indeed  infinite,  but  time,  her  presence,  her  thoughts, 
her  hands  are  finite  :  she  could  not  setJii  so  much  a 
lover  as  before,  because  she  must  be  a  mother  now :  God 
only  can  think  of  two  things  at  once.  In  his  enduring 
selfishness,  Faber  felt  the  child  come  between  them, 
and  reproached  her  neglect,  as  he  called  it.  She  answered 
him  gently  and  reasonably  ;  but  now  his  bonds  began  to 
weary  him.  She  saw  it,  and  in  the  misery  of  the  waste 
vision  opening  before  her  eyes,  her  temper,  till  now 
sweet  as  devoted,  began  to  change.  And  yet,  while  she 
loved  her  child  the  more  passionately  that  she  loved  her 
forebodingly,  almost  with  the  love  of  a  woman  already 
forsaken,  she  was  nearly  mad  sometimes  with  her  own 
heart,  that  she  could  not  give  herself  so  utterly  as  before 
to  her  idol. 

It  took  but  one  interview  after  he  had  confessed  it 
to  himself,  to  reveal  the  fact  to  her  that  she  had  grown 
a  burden  to  him.  He  came  a  little  seldomer,  and  by 
degrees  which  seemed  to  her  terribly  rapid,  more  and 
more  seldom.  He  had  never  recognized  duty  in  his  re- 
iation  to  her.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  had  not  done 
the  effects  of  duty  towards  her;  love  had  as  yet  prevented 
the  necessity  of  appeal  to  the  stern  daughter  of  (iod. 
But  what  love  with  which  our  humanity  is  acquainted  can 
keep  healthy  without  calling  in  the  aid  of  Duty  ?  Perfect 
Love  is  the  mother  of  all  duties  and  all  virtues,  and 


7 HE  MINISTER'S  STUDY.  439 

needs  not  be  admonished  of  her  children  ;  but  not  until 
Love  is  perfected,  may  she,  casting  out  Fear,  forget  also 
Duty.  And  hence  are  the  conditions  of  such  a  relation 
altogether  incongruous.  For  the  moment  the  man,  not 
yet  debased,  admits  a  thought  of  duty,  he  is  aware  that 
far  more  is  demanded  of  him  than,  even  for  the  sake  of 
purest  right,  he  has  either  the  courage  or  the  conscience 
to  yield.  But  even  now  Faber  had  not  the  most  distant 
intention  of  forsaking  her ;  only  why  should  he  let  her 
burden  him,  and  make  his  life  miserable  ?  There  were 
other  pleasures  besides  the  company  of  the  most  child- 
ishly devoted  of  women  :  why  should  he  not  take  them  ? 
Why  should  he  give  all  his  leisure  to  one  who  gave 
more  than  the  half  of  it  to  her  baby  ? 

He  had  money  of  his  own,  and,  never  extravagant  upon 
himself,  was  more  liberal  to  the  poor  girl  than  ever  she 
desired.  But  there  was  nothing  mercenary  in  her.  She  was 
far  more  incapable  of  turpitude  than  he,  for  she  was  of  a 
higher  nature,  and  loved  much  where  he  loved  only  a 
little.  She  was  nobler,  sweetly  prouder  than  he.  She 
had  sacrificed  all  to  him  for  love— could  accept  nothing 
from  him  without  the  love  which  alone  is  the  soul  of 
any  gift,  alone  makes  it  rich.  She  would  not,  could 
not  see  him  unhappy.  In  her  fine  generosity,  strug- 
gling to  be  strong,  she  said  to  herself,  that,  after  all,  she 
would  leave  him  richer  than  she  was  before— richer 
than  he  was  now.  He  would  not  want  the  child  he  had 
given  her;  she  would,  and  she  could,  live  for  her, 
upon  the  memory  of  two  years  of  such  love  as,  comforting 
herself  in  sad  womanly  pride,  she  flattered  herself  woman 
had  seldom  enjoyed.  She  would  not  throw  the  past  from 
her  because  the  weather  of  time  had  changed  ;  she  would 
not  mar  e\ery  fair  memory  with  the  inky  sponge  of  her 
present  loss.  She  would  turn  her  back  upon  her  sun  ere 
he  set  quite,  and  carry  with  her  into  the  darkness  the 
last  gorgeous  glow  of  his  departure.  While  she  had  his 
child,  should  she  never  see  him  again,  there  remained  a 
bond  between  them — a  bond  that  could  never  be  broken. 


440  PAUL  FABER. 

He  and  she  met  in  that  child's  Hfe — her  being  was  the 
eternal  fact  of  their  unity. 

Both  she  and  he  had  to  learn  that  there  was  yet  a 
closer  bond  between  them,  necessary  indeed  to  the  fact 
that  a  child  could  be  born  of  them,  namely,  that  they  two 
had  issued  from  the  one  perfect  heart  of  love.  And 
every  heart  of  perplexed  man,  although,  too  much  for 
itself,  it  cannot  conceive  how  the  thing  should  be,  has 
to  learn  that  there,  in  that  heart  whence  it  came,  lies  for 
it  restoration,  consolation,  content.  Herein,  O  God,  lies 
a  task  for  thy  perfection,  for  the  might  of  thy  imagina- 
tion— which  needs  but  thy  will  (and  thy  suffering?)  to  be 
creation  ! 

One  evening  when  he  paid  her  a  visit  after  the  absence 
of  a  week,  he  found  her  charmingly  dressed,  and  merry, 
but  in  a  strange  fashion  which  he  could  not  understand. 
The  baby,  she  said,  was  downstairs  with  the  landlady, 
and  she  free  for  her  Paul.  She  read  to  him,  she  sang  to 
him,  she  bewitched  him  afresh  with  the  graces  he  had 
helped  to  develop  in  her.  He  said  to  himself  when  he 
left  her  that  surely  never  was  there  a  more  gracious 
creature — and  she  was  utterly  his  own  !  It  was  the  last 
flicker  of  the  dying  light — the  gorgeous  sunset  she  had 
resolved  to  carry  with  her  in  her  memory  for  ever. 
When  he  sought  her  again  the  next  evening,  he  found 
her  landlady  in  tears.  She  had  vanished,  taking  with 
her  nothing  but  her  child,  and  her  child's  garments. 
The  gown  she  had  worn  the  night  before,  hung  in  lier 
bedroom — everything  but  what  she  must  then  be  wearing 
was  left  behind.  The  woman  wept,  spoke  of  her  with 
genuine  affection,  and  said  she  had  paid  everything.  To 
his  questioning  she  answered  that  they  had  gone  away 
in  a  cab :  she  had  called  it,  but  knew  neither  the  man  nor 
his  number.  Persuading  himself  she  had  but  gone  to 
see  some  friend,  he  settled  himself  in  her  rooms  to  await 
her  return,  but  a  week  rightly  served  to  consume  his 
hope.  The  iron  entered  into  his  soul,  and  for  a  time 
tortured  him.     He  wept — but  consoled  himself  that  he 


THE  MINISTER'S  STUDY.  441 

wept,  for  it  proved  to  himself  tliat  lie  was  not  heartless. 
He  comforted  himself  farther  in  the  thought  that  she 
knew  where  to  find  him,  and  that  when  trouble  came 
upon  her,  she  would  remember  how  good  he  had  been  to 
her,  and  what  a  return  she  had  made  for  it.  Because  he 
would  not  give  up  everything  to  her,  liberty  and  all,  she 
had  left  him  !  And  in  revenge,  having  so  long  neglected 
him  for  the  child,  she  had  for  the  last  once  roused  in  her 
every  power  of  enchantment,  had  brought  her  every 
charm  into  play,  that  she  might  lastingly  bewitch  him 
with  the  old  spell,  and  the  undying  memory  of  their  first 
bliss— then  left  him  to  his  lonely  misery !  She  had  done 
what  she  could  for  the  ruin  of  a  man  of  education,  a  man 
of  family,  a  man  on  the  way  to  distinction  !— a  man  of 
genius,  he  said  even,  but  he  was  such  only  as  every  man 
is  :  he  was  a  man  of  latent  genius. 

But  verily,  though  our  sympathy  goes  all  with  a  woman 
like  her,  such  a  man,  however  little  he  deserves,  and 
however  much  he  would  scorn  it,  is  far  more  an  object 
of  pity.  She  has  her  love,  has  not  been  false  thereto, 
and  one  day  will  through  suffering  find  the  path  to  the 
door  of  rest.  When  she  left  him,  her  soul  was  endlessly 
richer  than  his.  The  music,  of  which  he  said  she  knew 
nothing,  in  her  soul  moved  a  deep  wave,  while  it  blew 
but  a  sparkling  ripple  on  his ;  the  poetry  they  read 
together  echoed  in  a  far  profounder  depth  of  her  being, 
and  I  do  not  believe  she  came  to  loatl-e  it  as  he  did  ; 
and  when  she  read  of  him  who  reasoned  that  the  sins  of 
a  certain  woman  must  have  been  forgiven  her,  else  hov/ 
could  she  love  so  much,  she  may  well  have  been  able, 
from  the  depth  of  such  another  loving  heart,  to  believe 
utterly  in  him— while  we  know  that  her  poor,  shrunken 
lover  came  to  think  it  manly,  honest,  reasonable,  meri- 
torious to  deny  him. 

Weeks,  months,  years  passed,  but  she  never  sought 
him  ;  and  he  so  far  forgot  her  by  ceasing  to  think  of  her, 
that  at  length,  when  a  chance  bubble  did  rise  from  the 
drowned  memory,   it  broke  instaiitly  and  vanished.     As 


442  PAUL  FABER. 

to  the  cliild,  he  had  ahiiost  forgotten  whether  it  was  a 
boy  or  a  girl. 

But  since,  in  his  new  desolation,  he  discovered  her, 
beyond  a  doubt,  in  the  little  Amanda,  old  memories  h.;d 
been  crowding  back  upon  his  heart,  and  he  had  begun  to 
perceive  how  Amanda's  mother  must  have  felt  when  she 
saw  his  love  decaying  visibly  before  her,  and  to  suspect 
that  it  was  in  the  self-immolation  of  love  that  she  had 
left  him.  His  own  character  had  been  hitherto  so 
uniformly  pervaded  with  a  refined  selfishness  as  to 
afford  no  stand-point  of  a  different  soil,  whence  by 
contrast  to  recognize  the  true  nature  of  the  rest ;  but 
now  it  began  to  reveal  itself  to  his  conscious  judgment. 
And  at  last  it  struck  him  that  twice  he  had  been  left — 
by  women  whom  he  loved — at  least  by  women  who 
loved  him.  Two  women  had  trusted  him  utterly,  and  he 
had  failed  them  both  !  Next  followed  the  thought,  stinging 
him  to  the  heart,  that  the  former  was  the  purer  of  the  two  ; 
that  the  one  on  whom  he  had  looked  down  because  of  her 
lack  of  education,  and  her  familiarity  with  humble  things 
and  simple  forms  of  life,  knew  nothing  of  what  men  count 
evil,  while  she  in  whom  he  had  worshipped  refinement, 
intellect,  culture,  beauty,  song — she  who,  in  her  love- 
teachableness  had  received  his  doctrine  against  all  the 

prejudices  of    her   education,    was what  she    had 

confessed  herself! 

But,  against  all  reason  and  logic,  the  result  of  this 
comparison  was,  that  Juliet  returned  fresh  to  his  imagina- 
tion in  all  the  first  witchery  of  her  loveliness ;  and 
presently  he  found  himself  for  the  first  time  making 
excuses  for  her :  if  she  had  deceived  him,  she  had 
deceived  him  from  love ;  whatever  her  past,  she  had 
been  true  to  him,  and  was,  from  the  moment  slie  loved 
him,  incapable  of  wrong.— He  had  cast  her  from  him, 
and  she  had  sought  refuge  in  the  arms  of  the  only  rival 
he  ever  would  have  had  to  fear — the  bare-ribbed  Death  ! 

Naturally  followed  the  reflection — what  was  he  to 
demand  purity  of  any  woman  ? — Had  he  not  accepted — 


THE  MINISTER'S  STUDY.  4^3 

yes,  tempted,  enticed  from  the  woman  who  preceded 
her,  the  sacrifice  of  one  of  the  wings  of  her  soul  on  the 
altar  of  his  selfishness !  then  driven  her  from  him, 
thus  maimed  and  helpless,  to  the  mercy  of  the  rude  blasts 
of  the  world  !  She,  not  he  ever,  had  been  the  noble 
one,  tlie  bountifiil  giver,  the  victim  of  shameless  ingrati- 
tude. Flattering  himself  that  misery  would  drive  her 
back  to  him,  he  had  not  made  a  single  effort  to  find  her, 
or  mourned  that  he  could  never  make  up  to  her  for  the 
wrongs  he  had  done  her-  lie  had  not  even  hoped  for  a 
future  in  which  he  miglit  himible  himself  before  her  ! 
WJiat  room  Avas  there  here  to  talk  of  honour  !  If  she 
had  not  sunk  to  the  streets  it  was  through  her  own 
■\irtue,  and  none  of  his  care  !  And  novv  she  was  dead  ! 
and  his  child,  but  for  the  charity  of  a  despised  supersti- 
tion, would  have  beer,  left  an  outcast  in  the  London 
streets,  to  wither  into  the  old-faced  v/cakling  of  a  London 
workhouse  ! 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 


THE    ELOWING   OF    THE    WIND. 


*MALLER   and    smaller  Faber    felt   as   he 

pursued  his  plain,   courageous   confession 

of  wrong  to  the  man  whose  life  was  even 

now  in  peril  for  the  sake  of  his  neglected 

child.      When    he    concluded    with    the 

expression  of  his  conviction  that  Amanda 

was  his  daughter,  then  first  the  old  minister  spoke.     His 

love  had  made  him  guess  what  was  coming,  and  he  was 

on  his  guard. 

"  May  I  ask  what  is  your  object  in  making  this  state- 
ment to  me,  Mr.  Faber  ?"'  he  said  coldly. 

"  I  am  conscious  of  none  but  to  confess  the  tmth,  and 
perforiii  any  duty  that  may  be  mine  in  consequence  of 
the  discovery,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Do  you  wish  this  truth  published  to  the  people  of 
Glaston  ?"  inquired  the  minister,  in  the  same  icy  tone. 

"  I  have  no  s:\r.h  desire  ;  but  I  am  of  course  prepared 
to  confess  Amanda  my  child,  and  to  make  you  v.-hat 
amends  may  be  possible  for  the  trouble  and  expense  she 
has  occasioned  you." 

"  Trouble !  lixpense !"  cried  the  minister  fiercely. 
"  Do  you  mean  in  your  cold-blooded  heart,  that, 
because  you,  who  have  no  claim  to  the  child  but  that  of 


THE  BLOWING  OF  THE  IVJND.  445 

self-indulgence — because  you  believe  her  yours,  I  who 
have  for  years  carried  lier  in  my  bosom,  am  going  to  give 
her  up  to  a  man,  who,  all  these  years,  has  made  not  one 
effort  to  discover  his  missing  child?  In  the  sight  of 
God,  which  of  us  is  her  father?  But  I  forget:  that  is  a 
question  you  cannot  understand.  Whether  or  not  you 
are  her  father,  I  do  not  care  a  straw.  You  have  not 
proved  it ;  and  I  tell  you  that,  until  the  court  of  cliancery 
orders  me  to  deliver  up  my  darling  to  you,  to  be  taught 
there  is  no  living  Father  of  men — and  that  by  the  fittest 
of  all  men  to  enforce  the  lie — not  until  then  will  I  yield 
a  hair  of  her  head  to  you.  God  grant,  if  you  were  her 
father,  her  mother  had  more  part  in  her  than  you  ! — A 
thousand  times  rather  I  would  we  had  both  perished  in 
the  roaring  mud,  than  that  I  should  have  to  give  her  up 
to  you." 

He  struck  his  fist  on  the  table,  rose,  and  turned  from 
him.  Faber  also  rose,  quietly,  silent  and  pale.  He 
stood  a  moment,  waiting.  Mr.  Drake  turned.  Faber 
made  him  an  obeisance,  and  left  the  room. 

The  minister  was  too  hard  upon  him.  He  would  not 
have  been  so  hard  but  for  his  atheism ;  he  would  not 
have  been  so  hard  if  he  could  have  seen  into  his  soul. 
But  Faber  felt  he  deserved  it.  Ere  he  reached  home, 
however,  he  had  begun  to  think  it  rather  hard  that, 
when  a  man  confessed  a  wrong,  and  desired  to  make 
what  reparation  he  could,  he  should  have  the  very  can- 
dour of  his  confession  thus  thrown  in  his  teeth.  Verily, 
even  towards  the  righteous  among  men,  candour  is  a 
perilous  duty. 

He  entered  the  surgery.  There  he  had  been  making 
some  experiments  with  peroxide  of  manganese,  a  solution 
of  which  stood  in  a  bottle  on  the  table.  A  ray  of  bril- 
liant sunlight  was  upon  it,  casting  its  shadow  on  a  piece 
of  white  paper,  a  glorious  red.  It  caught  his  eyes.  He 
could  never  tell  what  it  had  to  do  with  the  current  of  his 
thoughts,  but  neither  could  he  afterwards  get  rid  of  the 
feeling  that  it  had   had  some  influence  upon  it.     For 


446  PAUL  FABER. 

as  he  looked  at  it,  scarcely  knowing  he  did,  and  thinking 
still  how  hard  the  minister  had  been  upon  him,  suddenly 
he  found  himself  in  the  minister's  place,  and  before  him 
Juliet  making  her  sad  confession  :  how  had  he  met  that 
confession  ?  The  whole  scene  returned,  and  for  the  first 
time  struck  him  right  on  the  heart,  and  then  first  he 
began  to  be  in  reality  humbled  in  his  own  eyes.  What  if, 
after  all,  he  was  but  a  poor  creature  ?  What  if,  instead  of 
having  anything  to  be  proud  of,  he  was  in  reality  one  who, 
before  any  jury  of  men  or  women  called  to  judge  him, 
must  hide  his  head  in  shame  ? 

The  thought  once  allowed  to  enter  and  remain  long 
enough  to  be  questioned,  never  more  went  far  from  him. 
For  a  time  he  walked  in  the  midst  of  a  dull  cloud,  first 
of  dread,  then  of  dismay — a  cloud  from  which  came 
thunders,  and  lightnings,  and  rain.  It  passed,  and  a 
doubtful  dawn  rose  dim  and  scared  upon  his  conscious- 
ness, a  daAvn  in  which  the  sun  did  not  appear,  and  on 
which  followed  a  gray  solemn  day.  A  humbler  regard 
of  himself  had  taken  the  place  of  confidence  and  satis- 
faction. An  undefined  hunger,  far  from  understood  by 
himself,  but  having  vaguely  for  its  object  clearance  and 
atonement  and  personal  purity  even,  had  begun  to  grow, 
and  move  within  him.  The  thought  stung  him  with 
keen  self  contempt,  yet  think  he  must  and  did,  that  a 
woman  might  be  spotted  not  a  litde,  and  yet  be  good 
enough  for  him  in  the  eyes  of  retributive  justice.  He  saw 
plainly  that  his  treatment  of  his  wife,  knowing  what  he  did 
of  himself,  was  a  far  worse  shame  than  any  fault  of  which 
a  girl,  such  as  Juliet  was  at  the  time,  could  have  been 
guilty.  And  with  that,  for  all  that  he  believed  it  utterly 
in  vain,  his  longing  after  the  love  he  had  lost,  grew  and 
grew,  ever  passing  over  into  sickening  despair,  and  then 
springing  afresh  ;  he  longed  for  Juliet  as  she  had  prayed 
to  him — as  the  only  power  that  could  make  him  clean  ; 
it  seemed  somehow  as  if  she  could  even  help  him  in 
his  repentance  for  the  wrong  done  to  Amanda's  mother. 
The  pride  of  the  Pharisee  was  gone,  the  dignity  of  the 


THE  BLOJFING  OF  THE  WIND.  447 

husband  had  vanished,  and  his  soul  longed  after  the  love 
that  covers  a  multitude  of  sins,  as  the  air  in  which  alone 
his  spirit  could  breathe  and  live  and  find  room.  I  set 
it  down  briefly  ;  the  change  passed  upon  him  by  many 
degrees,  with  countless  alternations  of  mood  and  feeling, 
and  without  the  smallest  conscious  change  of  opinion. 

The  rest  of  the  day  after  receiving  Faber's  communi- 
cation, poor  Mr.  Drake  roamed  about  like  one  on  the 
verge  of  insanity,  struggling  to  retain  lawful  dominion 
over  his  thoughts.  At  times  he  was  lost  in  apprehensive 
melancholy,  at  times  roused  to  such  fierce  anger  that  he 
had  to  restrain  himself  from  audible  malediction.  The 
following  day  Dorothy  would  have  sent  for  Faber,  for  he 
had  a  worse  attack  of  the  fever  than  ever  before,  but  he 
declared  that  the  man  should  never  again  cross  his 
threshold.  Dorothy  concluded  there  had  been  a  fresh 
outbreak  between  them  of  the  old  volcano.  He  grew 
worse  and  worse,  and  did  not  object  to  her  sending  for 
Dr.  Mather  ;  but  he  did  not  do  him  much  good.  He  was 
in  a  very  critical  state,  and  Dorothy  was  miserable  about 
him.  The  fever  was  persistent,  and  the  cough  which  he 
had  had  ever  since  the  day  that  brought  his  illness,  grew 
worse.  His  friends  would  gladly  have  prevailed  upon 
him  to  seek  a  warmer  climate,  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it. 

Upon  one  occasion,  Dorothy,  encouraged  by  the  pres- 
ence of  Dr.  Mather,  was  entreating  him  afresh  to  go 
somewhere  from  home  for  a  while. 

"  No,  no  :  what  would  become  of  my  money  ?"  he 
answered,  with  a  smile  which  Dorothy  understood.  The 
doctor  imagined  it  the  speech  of  a  man  whom  previous 
poverty  and  suddenly  supervening  wealth  had  made 
penurious, 

"Oh!"  he  remarked  reassuringly,  "you  need  not 
spend  a  penny  more  abroad  than  you  do  at  home.  The 
difference  in  the  living  would,  in  some  places,  quite 
make  up  for  the  expense  of  the  journey," 

The  minister  looked  bewildered  for  a  moment,  then 
seemed  to  find  himself,  smiled  again,  and  reiilicd — 


448  PAUL  FADER. 

"You  do  not  quite  understand  me:  I  have  a  great 
deal  of  money  to  spend,  and  it  ought  to  be  spent  here  in 
England  where  it  was  made — God  knows  how." 

"  You  may  get  help  to  spend  it  in  England,  without 
throwing  your  life  away  with  it,"  said  the  doctor,  who 
could  not  help  thinking  of  his  own  large  family. 

"Yes,  I  daresay  I  might — from  many — but  it  was 
given  me  to  spend — in  destroying  injustice,  in  doing  to 
men  as  others  ought  to  have  done  to  them.  My  preach- 
ing was  such  a  poor  affair  that  it  is  taken  from  me,  and  a 
lower  calling  given  me — to  spend  money.  If  I  do  not 
well  with  that,  then  indeed  I  am  a  lost  man.  If  I  be 
not  faithful  in  that  which  is  another's,  who  will  give  me 
that  which  is  my  own  ?  If  I  cannot  further  the  coming 
of  Christ,  I  can  at  least  make  a  road  or  two,  bring  down 
a  mountain  or  two,  exalt  a  valley  or  two,  to  prepare  his 
way  before  him." 

Thereupon  it  wms  the  doctor's  turn  to  smile.  All  that 
was  to  him  as  if  spoken  in  a  language  unknown,  except 
that  he  recognized  the  religious  tone  in  it.  "  The  man 
is  true  to  his  profession,"  he  said  to  himself,  " — as  he 
ought  to  be  of  course  \  but  catch  me  spending  my  money 
that  wvay,  if  I  had  but  a  hold  of  it !" 

His  father  died  soon  after,  and  he  got  a  hold  of  the 
money  he  called  his,  whereupon  he  parted  W'ith  his  prac- 
tice, and  by  idleness  and  self-indulgence,  knowing  all  the 
time  what  he  was  about,  brought  on  an  infirmity  which  no 
skill  could  cure,  and  is  now  a  grumbling  invalid,  at  one  or 
another  of  the  German  spas.  I  mention  it  partly  because 
many  preferred  this  man  to  Faber  on  the  ground  that  he 
went  to  church  every  Sunday,  and  always  shook  his 
head  at  the  other's  atheism. 

Faber  wrote  a  kind,  respectful  letter,  somewhat  injured 
in  tone,  to  the  minister,  saying  he  was  much  concerned  to 
hear  that  he  was  not  so  well,  and  expressing  his  appre- 
hension that  he  himself  had  been  in  some  measure  the 
cause  of  his  relapse.  He  begged  leave  to  assure  him 
that  he  perfectly  recognized  the  absolute  superiority  of 


THE  BLOWING  OP  THE  JVIND.  449 

Mr.  Drake's  claim  to  the  child.  He  had  never  dreamed 
of  asserting  any  right  in  her,  except  so  much  as  was 
implied  in  the  acknowledgment  of  his  duty  to  restore  the 
expense  which  his  wrong  and  neglect  had  caused  her  true 
father;  beyond  that  he  well  knew  he  could  make  no 
return  save  in  gratitude;  but  if  he  might,  for  the  very 
partial  easing  of  his  conscience,  be  permitted  to  supply 
the  means  of  the  child's  education,  he  was  ready  to  sign 
an  agreement  that  all  else  connected  with  it  should  be 
left  entirely  to  Mr.  Drake.  He  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
see  her  sometimes,  for,  long  ere  a  suspicion  had  crossed 
his  mind  that  she  was  his,  the  child  was  already  dear  to 
him.  He  was  certain  that  her  mother  would  have  much 
preferred  Mr.  Drake's  influence  to  his  own,  and  for  her 
sake  also,  he  would  be  careful  to  disturb  nothing.  But 
he  hoped  Mr.  Drake  would  remember  that,  however 
unworthy,  he  was  still  her  father. 

The  minister  was  touched  by  the  letter,  moved  also 
in  the  hope  that  an  arrow  from  the  (juiver  of  the  truth 
had  found  in  the  doctor  a  vulnerable  spot.  He  answered 
that  he  should  be  welcome  to  see  the  child  when  he 
would ;  and  that  she  should  go  to  him  when  he  pleased. 
He  must  promise,  however,  as  the  honest  man  ever)'body 
knew  him  to  be,  not  to  teach  her  there  was  no  God,  or 
lead  her  to  despise  the  instructions  she  received  at  home. 

The  word  honest  was  to  Faber  like  a  blow.  He  had 
come  to  the  painful  conclusion  that  he  was  neither 
honest  man  nor  gentleman.  Doubtless  he  would  have 
knocked  any  one  down  who  told  him  so,  but  then  who 
had  the  right  to  take  with  him  the  liberties  of  a  con- 
science ?  Pure  love  only,  I  suspect,  can  do  that  without 
wrong.  He  would  not  try  less  to  be  honest  in  the  time 
to  come,  but  he  had  never  been,  and  could  no  more  ever 
feel  honest.  It  did  not  matter  much.  What  was  there 
worth  any  effort  ?  All  was  flat  and  miserable — a  hideous 
long  life  !  What  did  it  matter  what  he  was,  so  long  as  he 
hurt  nobody  any  more  !     He  was  tired  of  it  all. 

It  added  greatly  to  his  despondency  that  he  found  he 

G   G 


45<i  PAUL  FAB  Eli. 

could  no  longer  trust  his  temper.  That  the  cause  might 
be  purely  physical  was  no  consolation  to  him.  Ho  had 
been  accustomed  to  depend  on  his  imperturbability,  and 
now  he  could  scarcely  recall  the  feeling  of  the  mental 
condition.  He  did  not  suspect  how  much  the  change 
was  owing  to  his  new-gained  insight  into  his  character, 
and  the  haunting  dissatisfaction  it  caused. 

To  the  minister  he  replied,  that  he  had  been  earning 
a  good  deal  of  late,  and  amongst  other  things  that  the 
casting  away  of  superstition  did  not  necessarily  do  much 
for  the  development  of  the  moral  nature ;  in  consequence 
of  which  discovery,  he  did  not  feel  bound  as  before 
to  propagate  the  negative  portions  of  his  creed.  If  its 
denials  were  true,  he  no  longer  believed  them  powerful 
for  good ;  and  merely  as  facts  he  did  not  see  that  a  man 
was  required  to  disseminate  them.  Even  here,  however, 
his  opinion  must  go  for  little,  seeing  he  had  ceased  to 
care  much  for  anything,  true  or  false.  Life  was  no  longer 
of  any  value  to  him,  except  indeed  he  could  be  of  service 
to  Amanda,  Mr.  Drake  might  be  assured  she  was  the 
last  person  on  whom  he  would  wish  to  bring  to  bear  any 
of  the  opinions  so  objectionable  in  his  eyes.  He  would 
make  him  the  most  comprehensive  promise  to  that  eftect. 
Would  Mr.  Drake  allow  him  to  say  one  thing  more? — 
He  was  heartily  ashamed  of  his  past  history ;  and  if  there 
was  one  thing  to  make  him  wish  there  were  a  God — of 
Avhich  he  saw  no  chance,  it  was  that  he  might  beg  of 
him  the  power  to  make  up  for  the  wrongs  he  had  done, 
even  if  it  should  require  an  eternity  of  atonement.  Until 
he  could  hope  for  that,  he  must  sincerely  hold  that  his 
was  the  better  belief,  as  well  as  the  likelier — namely,  that 
the  wronger  and  the  wronged  went  down  into  darkness 
friendly  with  oblivion,  joy  and  sorrow  alike  forgotten, 
there  to  bid  adieu  both  to  reproach  and  self-contempt. 
For  himself  he  had  no  desire  after  prolonged  existence. 
Why  should  he  desire  to  live  a  day,  not  to  say  for  ever 
— worth  nothing  to  himself,  or  to  any  one  }  If  there  were 
a  God.  he  would  rather  entreat  him,  and  that  he  would 


THE  BLOWING  OF  THE  WIND.  451 

do  humbly  enough,  to  unmake  him  again.  Certainly,  if 
there  were  a  God,  he  had  not  done  over  well  by  his 
creatures,  making  them  so  ignorant  and  feeble  that  they 
could  not  fail  to  fall.  Would  Mr.  Drake  have  made  his 
Amanda  so  ? 

When  Wingfold  read  the  letter  of  which  I  have  thus 
given  the  substance — it  was  not  until  a  long  time  after, 
in  Polwarth's  room — he  folded  it  softly  together  and 
said  : 

"  ^Vhen  he  wrote  that  letter,  Paul  Faber  was  already 
becoming  not  merely  a  man  to  love,  but  a  man  to 
revere."  After  a  pause  he  added,  "  But  what  a  world  it 
would  be,  filled  with  contented  men,  all  capable  of  doing 
the  things  for  which  they  would  despise  themselves  !" 

It  was  some  time  before  the  minister  was  able  to  answer 
the  letter,  except  by  sending  Amanda  at  once  to  the 
doctor  with  a  message  of  kind  regards  and  thanks.  But 
his  inability  to  reply  was  quite  as  much  from  the  letter's 
giving  him  so  much  to  think  of  first,  as  from  his  weakness 
and  fever.  For  he  saw  that  to  preach,  as  it  was  com- 
monly understood,  the  doctrine  of  the  forgiveness  of 
sins  to  such  a  man,  would  be  useless  :  he  would  rather 
believe  in  a  God  who  would  punish  them,  than  in  one 
Avho  would  pass  them  by.  To  be  told  he  was  forgiven, 
would  but  rouse  in  him  contemi)tuous  indignation. 
"  What  is  that  to  me  ?"  he  \^■ould  return.  "  I  remain 
what  I  am."  Then  grew  up  in  the  mind  of  the  minister 
the  following  plant  of  thought  :  "  Things  divine  can  only 
be  shadowed  in  the  human ;  what  is  in  man  must  be 
understood  of  God  with  the  divine  difference — not  only 
of  degree,  but  of  kind,  involved  in  the  fact  that  he  makes 
me,  I  can  make  nothing,  and  if  I  could,  should  yet  be 
no  less  a  creature  of  him  the  creator ;  therefore,  as  the 
heavens  are  higher  than  the  earth,  so  his  thoughts  are 
higher  than  our  thoughts,  and  what  we  call  his  forgiveness 
may  be,  must  be  something  altogether  transcending  the 
conception  of  man — overwhelming  to  such  need  as 
even  that  of  Paul  Faber,  whose  soul  has  begun  to  hunger 
G  G  2 


452  PAUL  FABER. 

after  righteousness,  and  whose  hunger  must  be  a  hunger 
that  Avill  not  easily  be  satisfied."  For  a  poor  nature  -vvill  for 
a  time  be  satisfied  with  a  middUng  God  ;  but  as  the  nature 
grows  richer,  the  ideal  of  the  God  desired  grows  greater. 
The  true  man  can  be  satisfied  only  with  a  God  of  mag- 
nificence, never  with  a  God  such  as  in  his  childhood  and 
youth  had  been  presented  to  Faber  as  the  God  of  the 
Bible.  That  God  only  whom  Christ  reveals  to  the  humble 
seeker,  can  ever  satisfy  human  soul. 

Then  it  came  into  the  minister's  mind,  thinking  over 
Faber's  religion  towards  his  fellows,  and  his  lack  towards 
God,  how  when  the  young  man  asked  Jesus  what  com- 
mandments he  must  keep  that  he  might  inherit  eternal 
life,  Jesus  did  not  say  a  word  concerning  those  of  the 
first  table — not  a  word,  that  is,  about  his  duty  towards 
God;  he  spoke  only  of  his  duty  towards  man.  Tlien 
it  struck  him  that  our  Lord  gave  him  no  sketch  or 
summary  or  part  of  a  religious  system — only  told  him 
what  he  asked,  the  practical  steps  by  which  he  might 
begin  to  climb  towards  eternal  life.  One  thing  he 
lacked— namely,  God  himself,  but  as  to  how  God  would 
meet  him,  Jesus  says  nothing,  but  himself  meets  him  on 
those  steps  with  the  offer  of  God.  He  treats  the  duties 
of  the  second  table  as  a  stair  to  the  first — a  stair  which, 
probably  by  its  crumbling  away  in  failure  beneath  his  feet 
as  he  ascended,  would  lift  him  to  such  a  vision  and 
such  a  horror  of  final  frustration,  as  would  make  him 
stretch  forth  his  hands,  like  the  sinking  Peter,  to  the 
living  God,  the  life  eternal  which  he  blindly  sought,  with- 
out wliose  closest  presence  he  could  never  do  the  simplest 
duty  aright,  even  of  those  he  had  been  doing  from  his 
youth  up.  His  measure  of  success,  and  his  sense  of  utter 
failure,  would  together  lift  him  towards  the  One  Good. 

Thus,  looking  out  npon  truth  from  the  cave  of  his 
brother's  need,  and  seeing  the  direction  in  which  the 
shadow  of  his  atheism  fell,  the  minister  learned  in  what 
direction  the  clouded  light  lay,  and  turning  his  gaze 
thitherward,  learned  mucli.     It  is  only  the  aged  who  have 


rilE  BLOWING  OF  THE  WIND.  453 

dropped  thinking  that  become  stupid.  Such  can  learn 
no  more,  until  first  their  young  nurse  Death  has  taken  off 
their  clothes,  and  put  the  old  babies  to  bed.  Of  such 
was  not  Walter  Drake.  Certain  of  his  formerly  petted 
doctrines  he  now  threw  away  as  worse  than  rubbish  ; 
others  he  dropped  with  indifference:  of  some  it 
was  as  if  the  angels  picked  his  pockets,  without 
his  knowing  it,  or  ever  missing  them ;  and  still  he 
found,  whatever  so-called  doctrine  he  parted  with,  that 
the  one  glowing  truth  which  had  lain  at  the  heart  of 
it,  buried,  mired,  obscured,  not  only  remained  with  him, 
but  shone  out  fresh,  restored  to  itself  by  the  loss  of  the 
clay-lump  of  worldly  figures  and  phrases,  in  whicli  the 
human  intellect  had  enclosed  it.  His  faith  was  elevated, 
and  so  confirmed. 


CHAPTER   XLVIII. 


THE   BORDER-LAND. 


R.  DREW,  the  draper,  was,  of  all  his  friends, 
the  one  who  most  frequently  visited  his 
old  pastor.  He  had  been  the  first,  al- 
though a  deacon  of  the  church,  in  part 
to  forsake  his  ministry,  and  join  the  wor- 
ship of,  as  he  honestly  believed,  a  less 
scriptural  community,  because  in  the  abbey  church  he 
lieard  better  neAvs  of  God  and  his  kingdom  :  to  him 
riglitly  the  gospel  was  everything,  and  this  church  or 
that,  save  for  its  sake,  less  than  nothing  and  vanity. 
It  had  hurt  Mr.  Drake  not  a  little  at  first,  but  he  found 
Drew  in  consequence  only  the  more  warmly  his  personal 
friend,  and  since  learning  to  know  Wingfold,  had  heartily 
justified  his  defection;  and  now  that  he  was  laid  up,  he 
missed  something  any  day  that  passed  without  a  visit  from 
the  draper.  One  evening  Drew  found  him  very  poorly, 
thougli  neither  the  doctor  nor  Dorothy  could  prevail 
upon  him  to  go  to  bed.  He  could  not  rest,  but  kept 
walking  about,  his  eye  feverish,  his  pulse  fluttering.  He 
welcomed  his  friend  even  more  warmly  than  usual,  and 
made  him  sit  by  the  fire,  while  lie  paced  tlie  room,  turn- 
ing and  turning,  like  a  caged  animal  that  fain  would  be 
king  of  infinite  space. 


THE  BORDER  LAND.  455 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  uncomfortable,"  said  Mr. 
Drev/. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  feel  uncommonly  well,"  replied 
the  pastor.  "  I  always  measure  my  health  by  my  power 
of  thinking  ;  and  to-night  my  thoughts  are  like  birds — or 
like  bees  rather,  that  keep  flying  in  delight  from  one  lovely 
blossom  to  another.  Only  the  fear  keeps  intruding  that 
an  hour  may  be  at  hand,  when  my  soul  will  be  dark,  and 
it  will  seem  as  if  the  Lord  had  forsaken  me," 

"  But  does  not  our  daily  bread  mean  our  spiritual  as 
well  as  our  bodily  bread?"  said  the  draper.  "  Is  it  not 
just  as  wrong  in  respect  of  the  one  as  of  the  other  to  dis- 
trust God  for  to-morrow  when  you  have  enough  for  to- 
day ?  Is  he  a  God  of  times  and  seasons,  of  this  and  that, 
or  is  he  the  All  in  all  ?" 

"  You  are  right,  old  friend,"  said  the  minister,  and 
ceasing  his  walk,  he  sat  down  by  the  fire  opposite  him.  "  I 
am  faithless  still. — O  Father  in  heaven,  give  us  this  day 
our  daily  bread. — I  suspect,  Drew,  that  I  have  had  as  yet 
no  more  than  the  shadow  of  an  idea  how  immediately  I 
— we  live  upon  the  Father. — I  will  tell  you  something.  I 
had  been  thinking  what  it  would  be  if  God  were  now  to 
try  me  with  heavenly  poverty,  as  for  a  short  time  he 
tried  me  with  earthly  jjoverty — that  is,  if  he  were  to 
stint  me  of  life  itself — not  give  me  enough  of  himself 
to  live  upon — enough  to  make  existence  feel  a  good.  The 
fancy  grew  to  a  fear,  laid  hold  upon  me,  and  made  me 
miserable.  Suppose,  for  instance,  I  said  to  myself,  I 
were  no  more  to  have  any  larger  visitation  of  thoughts 
and  hopes  and  aspirations  than  old  Mrs.  Bloxam,  who 
sits  from  morning  to  night  with  the  same  stocking  on 
her  needles,  and  absolutely  the  same  expression,  of  as 
near  nothing  as  may  be  upon  human  countenance,  nor 
changes  whoever  speaks  to  her!"  ' 

"She  says  the  Lord  is  with  her,"  suggested  the 
draper. 

"  Well !"  rejoined  the  minister,  in  a  slow,  cogitative 
tone. 


456  rAVL  FABER. 

"  And  i:)]ainly  life  is  to  her  worth  having,"  added  the 
draper.  "  Clearly  she  has  as  much  of  life  as  is  necessary 
to  her  present  stage." 

"  You  are  right.  I  have  been  saying  just  the  same 
things  to  myself;  and,  I  trust,  when  the  Lord  comes,  he 
■will  not  find  me  without  faith.  But  just  suppose  life 
ivcre  to  grow  altogether  uninteresting  !  Suppose  certain 
moods — such  as  you,  with  all  your  good  spirits  and 
blessed  temper,  must  surely  sometimes  have  experienced 
— suppose  they  were  to  become  fixed,  and  life  to  seem 
utterly  dull,  God  nowhere,  and  your  own  dreary  self,  and 
nothing  but  that  self,  everywhere  !" 

"  Let  me  read  you  a  chapter  of  St.  John,"  said  the 
draper. 

"  Presently  I  will.  But  I  am  not  in  the  right  mood 
just  this  moment.  Let  me  tell  you  first  how  I  came  by 
my  present  mood.  Don't  mistake  me  :  I  am  not  possessed 
by  the  idea — I  am  only  trying  to  understand  its  nature, 
and  set  a  trap  fit  to  catch  it,  if  it  should  creep  into  my 
inner  premises,  and  from  an  idea  swell  to  a  seeming  fact. 
— Well,  I  had  a  strange  kind  of  vision  last  night — no,  not  a 
vision — yes,  a  kind  of  vision — anyhow  a  very  strange  expe- 
rience. I  don't  know  whether  the  draught  the  doctor 
gave  me — I  wish  I  had  poor  Faber  back — this  fellow  is 
fitter  to  doctor  oxen  and  mules  than  men  ! — I  don't  know 
whether  the  draught  had  anything  to  do  with  it — I 
thought  I  tasted  something  sleepy  in  it — an}4iow,  thought 
is  thought,  and  truth  is  truth,  whatever  drug,  no  less  than 
whatever  joy  or  sorrow,  may  have  been  midwife  to  it.  The 
first  I  remember  of  the  mental  experience,  whatever  it 
may  have  to  be  called,  is,  that  I  was  coming  awake — 
returning  to  myself  after  some  period  wherein  conscious- 
ness had  been  quiescent.  Of  place,  or  time,  or  circum- 
stance, I  knew  nothing.  I  was  only  growing  aware  of 
being.  I  speculated  upon  nothing.  I  did  not  even  say  to 
myself,  '  I  was  dead,  and  now  I  am  coming  alive.'  I  only 
felt.  And  I  had  but  one  feeling — and  that  feeling  was  love 
— the  outgoing  of  a  longing  heart  towards — I  could  not  tell 


THE  BORDER  LAND.  457 

^vhat ;— towards— I  cannot  describe  the  feeling— towards 
the  only  existence  there  was,  and  that  was  everything  ;— 
towards  pure  being,  not  as  an  abstraction,  but  as  the  one 
actual  fact,  whence  the  world,  men,  and  me— a  some- 
thing I  knew  only  by  being  myself  an  existence.  It 
was  more  me  than  myself;  yet  it  was  not  me,  or  I  could 
not  have  loved  it.  I  never  thought  me  myself  by 
myself;  my  very  existence  was  the  consciousness  of  this 
absolute  existence  in  and  through  and  around  me  :  it 
made  my  heart  burn,  and  the  burning  of  my  heart  was 
my  life— and  the  burning  was  the  presence  of  the  Abso- 
lute. If  you  can  imagine  a  growing  fruit,  all  blind  and 
deaf,  yet  loving  the  tree  it  could  neither  look  upon  nor 
hear,  knowing  it  only  through  the  unbroken  arrival  of  its 
life  therefrom— that  is  something  like  what  I  felt.  I  sus- 
pect the  form  of  the  feeling  was  supplied  by  a  shadowy 
memory  of  the  time  before  I  was  born,  while  yet  my  life 
grew  upon  the  life  of  my  mother. 

"  By  degrees  came  a  change.  What  seemed  the  fire  in 
me,  burned  and  burned  until  it  began  to  grow  light ;  in 
which  light  I  began  to  remember  things  I  had  read  and 
known  about  Jesus  Christ  and  his  Father  and  my  Father. 
And  with  those  memories  the  love  grew  and  grew,  till  I 
could  hardly  bear  the  glory  of  God  and  his  Christ,  it 
made  me  love  so  intensely-  'I'hen  the  light  seemed  to 
begin  to  pass  out  beyond  me  somehow,  and  therewith  I 
remembered  the  words  of  the  Lord,  '  Let  your  light  so 
shine  before  men,'  only  I  was  not  letting  it  shine,  for 
while  I  loved  like  that,  I  could  no  more  keep  it  from 
shining  than  I  could  the  sun.  The  next  thing  was,  that 
I  began  to  tliink  of  one  I  had  loved,  then  of  another  and 
another  and  another— then  of  all  together  whom  ever  I 
had  loved,  one  after  another,  then  all  together.  And  the 
light  that  went  out  from  me  was  as  a  nimbus  infolding 
every  one  in  the  speechlessness  of  my  love.  But  lo  ! 
then,  the  light  stayed  not  there,  but,  leaving  them  not, 
went  on  beyond  them,  reaching  and  infolding  every  one 
of  those  also,  whom,  after  the  manner  of  men,  I  had  on 


45S  PAUL  FABER. 

eaith  merely  known  and  not  loved.  And  therewith  1 
knew  that,  for  all  the  rest  of  the  creation  of  God,  I  needed 
but  the  hearing  of  the  ears  or  the  seeing  of  the  eyes  to 
love  each  and  every  one,  in  his  and  her  degree ;  where- 
upon such  a  perfection  of  bliss  awoke  in  me,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  the  fire  of  the  divine  sacrifice  had  at  length 
seized  upon  my  soul,  and  I  was  dying  of  absolute  glory — 
which  is  love  and  love  only.  1  had  all  things,  yea  the 
All.  I  was  full  and  unutterably,  immeasurably  content. 
Yet  still  the  light  went  flowing  out  and  out  from  me,  and 
love  was  life  and  life  was  light  and  light  was  love.  On  and 
on  it  flowed,  until  at  last  it  grew  eyes  to  me,  and  I  could 
see.  Lo  !  before  me  was  the  multitude  of  the  brothers 
and  sisters  whom  I  loved — individually — a  man)-,  many 
— not  a  mass;— I  loved  every  individual  with  that 
special,  peculiar  kind  of  love  which  alone  belonged 
to  that  one,  and  to  that  one  alone.  The  sight  dazzled 
the  e3'es  which  love  itself  had  opened.  I  said  to 
myself,  'Ah,  how  radiant,  how  lovely,  how  divine  they 
are  !  and  they  are  mine,  every  one — the  many,  for  I  love 
them  !' 

"  Then  suddenly  came  a  whisper — not  to  my  ear — I 
heard  it  far  away,  but  whether  in  some  distant  cave  of 
thought,  away  beyond  the  flamingwalls  of  the  universe,  or 
in  some  forgotten,  dungeon-corner  of  my  own  heart,  I 
could  not  tell.  '  O  man,'  it  said,  '  what  a  being,  what  a 
life  is  thine  !  See  all  these  souls,  these  fires  of  life,  regard- 
ing and  loving  thee  !  It  is  in  the  glory  of  thy  love 
their  faces  shine.  Their  hearts  receive  it,  and  send 
it  back  in  joy.  Seest  thou  not  all  their  eyes  fixed 
upon  thine?  Seest  thou  not  the  light  come  and  go 
upon  their  fiices,  as  the  pulses  of  thy  heart  flow  and 
ebb?  See,  now  they  flash,  and  now  they  fade  !  Blessed 
art  thou,  O  man,  as  none  else  in  the  universe  of  God  is 
blessed !' 

"It  was,  or  seemed,  only  a  voice.  But  therewith,  horrible 
to  tell,  the  glow  of  another  fire  arose  in  me — an  orange 
and  red  fire,  and  it  went  out  from  me,  and  withered  all  the 


THE  BORDER  LAND.  459 

faces,  and  the  next  moment  there  was  darkness — all  was 
black  as  niglit.  But  my  being  was  still  awake — only  if 
then  there  was  bliss,  now  was  there  the  absolute  black- 
ness of  darkness,  the  positive  negation  of  bliss,  the  recoil 
of  self  to  devour  itself,  and  for  ever.  The  conscious- 
ness of  being  was  intense,  but  in  all  the  universe  was 
tliere  nothing  to  enter  that  being,  and  make  it  other  than 
an  absolute  loneliness.  It  was,  and  for  ever,  a  loveless, 
careless,  hopeless  monotony  of  self-knowing — a  hell  with 
but  one  demon,  and  no  fire  to  make  it  cry  :  my  self 
was  the  hell,  my  known  self  the  demon  of  it— a  hell  of 
which  I  could  not  find  the  walls,  cold  and  dark  and 
empty,  and  I  longed  for  a  flame  that  I  miglit  know  there 
was  a  God.  Somehow  I  only  remembered  God  as  a  word, 
however;  I  knew  nothing  of  my  whence  or  whither. 
One  time  there  might  have  been  a  God,  but  there  was 
none  now  :  if  there  ever  was  one,  he  must  be  dead. 
Certainly  there  was  no  God  to  love — for  if  there  was  a 
(lOd,  how  could  the  creature  whose  very  essence  was  to 
him  an  evil,  love  the  creator  of  him  ?  I  had  the  word 
love,  and  I  could  reason  about  it  in  my  mind,  but  I  could 
not  call  up  the  memory  of  what  the  feeling  of  it  was  like. 
The  blackness  grew  and  grew.  I  hated  life  fiercely.  I 
hated  the  very  possibility  of  a  God  who  had  created  me 
a  blot,  a  blackness.  With  that  I  felt  blackness  begin  to 
go  out  from  me,  as  the  light  liad  gone  before— not  that  I 
remembered  the  light ;  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  and 
remembered  it  only  after  I  awoke.  Then  came  the  words 
of  the  Lord  to  me  :  'If  therefore  the  light  that  is  in  thee 
be  darkness,  how  great  is  that  darkness !'  And  I  knew 
what  was  coming :  oh,  horror !  in  a  moment  more  I 
should  see  the  faces  of  those  I  had  once  loved,  dark  with 
the  blackness  that  went  out  from  my  very  existence ; 
then  I  should  hate  them,  and  my  being  would  then  be  a 
hell  to  which  the  hell  I  now  was  would  be  a  heaven  ! 
There  was  just  grace  enougli  left  in  me  for  the  hideous- 
ness  of  the  terror  to  wake  me.  I  was  cold  as  if  I  had 
been  dipped  in  a  well.     But  oh,  how  I  thanked   God 


46o  PAUL  FABER, 

that  I  was  what  I  am,  and  might  yet  hope  after  what 
I  may  be  !" 

The  mhiister's  face  was  pale  as  the  horse  that  grew 
gray  when  Death  mounted  him  ;  and  his  eyes  shone  with 
a  feverous  brihiancy.  The  draper  breathed  a  deep  breatl), 
and  rubbed  his  white  forehead.  The  minister  rose  and 
began  again  to  pace  the  room.  Drew  would  have  taken 
his  departure,  but  feared  leaving  him  in  such  a  state.  He 
bethought  himself  of  sometliing  that  might  help  to  calm 
him,  and  took  out  his  pocket-book.  The  minister's  dream 
had  moved  him  deeply,  but  he  restrained  himself  all  he 
could  from  manifesting  his  emotion. 

"  Your  vision,"  he  said,  "reminds  me  of  some  verses 
of  Mr.  Wingfold's,  of  which  Mrs,  Wingfold  very  kindly 
let  me  take  a  copy.  I  have  them  here  in  my  pocket-book  ; 
may  I  read  them  to  you  ?" 

The  minister  gave  rather  a  listless  consent,  but  that 
was  enough  for  Mr.  Drew's  object,  and  he  read  the  fol- 
lowing poem. 

SHALL  THE  DEAD  PRALSE  THEE? 

I  cannot  praise  thee.  By  his  instrument 
The  organ-master  sits,  nor  moves  a  hand  ; 

For  see  the  organ-pipes  o'erthrown  and  bent, 

Twisted  and  broke,  like  corn-stalks  tempest-fanned  ! 

I  well  could  praise  thee  for  a  flower,  a  dove  ; 

]!ut  not  for  life  that  is  not  life  in  me  ; 
Not  for  a  being  that  is  less  than  love — 

A  barren  shoal  half-lifted  from  a  sea. 

And  for  the  land  whence  no  wind  bloweth  ships, 
And  all  my  living  dead  ones  thither  blown — 

Rather  I'd  kiss  no  more  their  precious  lips, 
'than  carry  them  a  heart  so  poor  and  prone. 

Yet  I  do  bless  thee  thou  art  what  thou  art, 

That  thou  dost  know  thy>elf  what  thou  dost  know — 

A  perfect,  simjile,  tender,  rhythmic  heart, 
Beating  thy  blood  to  all  in  bounteous  flow. 


THE  BORDER  LAND.  461 

And  I  can  bless  tliee  too  for  every  smart, 
For  every  disappointment,  ache,  and  fear  ; 

For  every  hook  thou  fixcst  in  my  heart, 

For  every  burning  cord  that  draws  me  near. 

But  prayer  these  wake,  not  song.    Thyself  I  crave. 

Come  thou,  or  all  thy  gifts  away  I  fling. 
Thou  silent,  I  am  but  an  empty  grave  : 

Think  to  me,  Father,  and  I  am  a  king. 

Then,  like  the  wind-stirred  bones,  my  pipes  shall  quake, 
The  air  burst,  as  from  burning  house  the  blaze  ; 

And  swift  contending  harmonies  shall  shake 
Thy  windows  with  a  storm  of  jubilant  praise. 

Thee  praised,  I  haste  me  humble  to  my  own — 
Then  love  not  shame  shall  bow  me  at  their  feel. 

Then  first  and  only  to  my  stature  grown, 
Fulfilled  of  love,  a  servant  all-complete. 

At  first  the  minister  seemed  scarcely  to  listen,  as  he 
sat  with  closed  eyes  and  knitted  brows,  but  gradually  the 
wrinkles  disappeared  like  ripples,  an  expression  of  repose 
supervened,  and  when  the  draper  lifted  his  eyes  at  the 
close  of  his  reading,  there  was  a  smile  of  quiet  satisfaction 
on  the  now  aged-looking  countenance.  As  he  did  not 
open  his  eyes,  Drew  crept  softly  from  the  room,  saying  to 
Dorothy  as  he  left  the  house,  that  she  must  get  him  to 
bed  as  soon  as  possible.  She  went  to  him,  and  now 
found  no  difficulty  in  persuading  him.  But  something, 
she  could  not  tell  what,  in  his  appearance,  alarmed  her, 
and  she  sent  for  the  doctor.  He  was  not  at  home,  and 
had  expected  to  be  out  all  night.  She  sat  by  his  bedside 
for  hours,  but  at  last,  as  he  was  quietly  asleep,  ventured 
to  lay  herself  on  the  couch  in  the  room.  There  she  too 
fell  fast  asleep,  and  slept  until  the  morning,  undisturbed. 

When  she  went  to  his  bedside,  she  found  him  breath- 
ing softly,  and  thought  him  still  asleep.  But  he  opened 
his  eyes,  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  fixedly,  and  then 
said : 

"  Dorothy,  child  of  my  heart !  things  may  be  very 
difterent  from  what  we  have  been  taught,  or  what  we  may 


462  PAUL  FABER. 

of  ourselves  desire ;  but  every  difference  will  be  the  step 
of  an  ascending  stair — each  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
divine  perfection  which  alone  can  satisfy  the  children  of 
a  God,  alone  supply  the  poorest  of  their  cravings." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  his  hand,  then  hastened  to  get 
him  some  food. 

When  she  returned,  he  was  gone  up  the  stair  of  her 
future,  leaving  behind  him,  like  a  last  message  that  all 
was  well,  the  loveliest  smile  frozen  upon  a  face  of  peace. 
The  past  had  laid  hold  upon  his  body ;  he  was  free  in 
the  Eternal.  Dorothy  was  left  standing  at  the  top  of 
the  stair  of  the  present. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


EMPTY   HOUSES. 


HE  desolation  that  seized  on  Dorothy 
seemed  at  first  overwhehiiing.  There  was 
no  refuge  for  her.  The  child's  tears,  ques- 
tions, and  outbreaks  of  merriment  were  but 
a  trouble  to  her.  Even  Wingfold  and 
Helen  could  do  little  for  her.  Sorrow  was 
her  sole  companion,  her  sole  comfort  for  a  time  against 
the  dreariness  of  life.  Then  came  something  better. 
As  her  father's  form  receded  from  her,  his  spirit  drew 
nigh.  I  mean  no  phantom  out  of  Hades — no  conscious- 
ness of  local  presence  :  such  things  may  be — I  think 
soincfiincs  they  are ;  but  I  would  rather  know  my  friend 
better  through  his  death,  than  only  be  aware  of  his  pre- 
sence about  me  :  that  will  one  day  follow — how  much 
the  more  precious  that  the  absence  will  have  doubled 
its  revelation,  its  nearness  !  To  Dorothy  her  father's 
character,  especially  as  developed  in  his  later  struggles 
after  righteousness — the  root-righteousness  of  God, 
opened  itself  up  day  by  day.  She  saw  him  combating 
his  faults,  dejected  by  his  fLiilures,  encouraged  by  his  suc- 
cesses ;  and  he  grew  to  her  the  dearer  for  his  faults, 
as  she  perceived  more  plainly  how  little  he  had  sided, 
how  hard  he  had  fought  with  them.     The  very  imper- 


4^4  PAUL  FABER. 

fcctions  he  repudiated,  gathered  him  honour  in  the  eyes 
of  her  love,  sowed  seeds  of  perennial  tenderness  in  her 
heart.  She  saw  how,  in  those  last  days,  he  had  been  over- 
coming the  W'Orld  with  accelerated  victory,  and  growing 
more  and  more  of  the  real  father  that  no  man  can  be 
until  he  has  attained  to  the  sonship.  The  marvel  is  that 
our  children  are  so  tender  and  trusting  to  the  slow- 
developing  father  in  us.  The  tmth  and  faith  which 
the  great  Father  has  put  in  the  heart  of  the  child, 
makes  him  the  nursing  father  of  the  fatherhood  in  his 
father ;  and  thus  in  part  it  is,  that  the  children  of  men 
will  come  at  last  to  know  the  great  Father.  The  family, 
with  all  its  powers  for  the  development  of  society,  is  a 
family  because  it  is  born  and  rooted  in,  and  grows  out 
of  the  very  bosom  of  God.  Gabriel  told  Zacharias  that 
his  son  John,  to  make  ready  a  people  prepared  for 
the  Lord,  should  turn  the  hearts  of  the  fathers  to  the 
children. 

Few  griefs  can  be  so  paralyzing  as,  for  a  time,  that  of 
a  true  daughter  upon  the  departure,  which  at  first  she 
feels  as  the  loss,  of  a  true  parent ;  but  through  the  rifts  of 
such  heartbreaks  the  light  of  love  shines  clearer,  and 
where  love  is,  there  is  eternity :  one  day  he  who  is  the 
householder  of  the  universe,  will  begin  to  bring  out 
of  his  treasury  all  the  good  old  things,  as  well  as  the 
better  new  ones.  How  true  must  be  the  bliss  up  to 
which  the  intense  realities  of  such  sorrows  are  needful  to 
force  the  way  for  the  faithless  heart  and  the  feeble  will ! 
Lord,  like  thy  people  of  old,  we  need  }-et  the  background 
of  the  thunder-cloud  against  which  to  behold  thee ;  but 
one  day  the  only  darkness  around  thy  dwelling  will  be 
the  too  mucli  of  thy  brightness.  For  thou  art  the 
perfection  which  every  heart  sighs  towards,  no  mind  can 
attain  unto.  If  thou  wast  one  whom  created  mind  could 
embrace,  thou  wouldst  be  too  small  for  those  whom  thou 
hast  made  in  thine  own  image,  the  infinite  creatures  that 
seek  their  God,  a  being  to  love  and  know  infinitely.  For 
the  created  to  know  perfectly  would  be  to  be  damned 


EMPTY  HOUSES.  465 

for  ever  in  the  nutshell  of  the  finite.  He  who  is  his  own 
cause,  alone  can  understand  perfectly  and  remain  infinite, 
for  that  which  is  known  and  that  which  knows  are  in 
him  the  same  infinitude. 

Faber  came  to  see  Dorothy — solemn,  sad,  kind.  He 
made  no  attempt  at  condolence,  did  not  speak  a  word 
of  comfort ;  but  he  talked  of  the  old  man,  revealing 
for  him  a  deep  respect ;  and  her  heart  was  touched,  and 
turned  itself  towards  him.  Some  change,  she  thought, 
must  have  passed  upon  him.  Her  father  had  told  her 
nothing  of  his  relation  to  Amanda.  It  would  have  to  be 
done  some  day,  but  he  shrunk  from  it.  She  could  not  help 
suspecting  there  was  more  between  Faber  and  him  than 
she  had  at  first  imagined ;  but  there  was  in  her  a  healthy 
contentment  with  ignorance,  and  she  asked  no  questions. 
Neither  did  Faber  make  any  attempt  to  find  out  whether 
she  knew  what  had  passed ;  even  about  Amanda  and 
any  possible  change  in  her  future  he  was  listless.  He 
had  never  been  a  man  of  plans,  and  had  no  room  for  any 
now  under  the  rubbish  of  a  collapsed  life.  His  days 
were  gloomy  and  his  nights  troubled.  He  dreamed 
constantly  either  of  Amanda's  mother,  or  of  Juliet — 
sometimes  of  both  together,  and  of  endless  perplexity 
between  them.  Sometimes  he  woke  weeping.  He  did 
not  now  despise  his  tears,  for  they  fiowed  neither  from 
suffering  nor  self-pity,  but  from  love  and  sorrow  and 
repentance.  A  question  of  the  possibility  of  his  Avife's 
being  yet  alive  would  occasionally  occur  to  him,  but  he 
always  cast  the  thought  from  him  as  a  folly  in  which  he 
dared  not  indulge  lest  it  should  grow  upon  him  and 
unman  him  altogether.  Better  she  were  dead  than  suffer- 
ing what  his  cruelty  might  have  driven  her  to  :  he  had 
weakened  her  self-respect  by  insult,  and  then  driven 
her  out  helpless. 

People  said  he  took  the  loss  of  his  wife  coolly ;  but 
the  fact  was  that,  in  every  quiet  way,  he  had  been  doing 
all  man  could  do  to  obtain  wliat  information  concerning 
her  there  might  possibly  be  to  be  liad.     Naturally  he 


466  PAUL  FABER. 

would  have  his  proceedings  as  little  as  possible  in  the 
public  mouth  ;  and  to  employ  the  police  or  the  news- 
papers in  such  a  quest  was  too  horrible.  But  he  had 
made  inquiries  in  all  directions.  He  had  put  a  question 
or  two  to  Polwarth,  but  at  that  time  he  knew  nothing  of 
her,  and  did  not  feel  bound  to  disclose  his  suspicions. 
Not  knowing  to  what  it  might  not  expose  her,  he  would 
not  betray  the  refuge  of  a  woman  with  a  woman.  Faber 
learned  what  everybody  had  learned,  and  for  a  time  was 
haunted  by  the  horrible  expectation  of  further  news 
from  the  lake.  Every  knock  at  the  door  made  him  start 
and  turn  pale.  But  the  body  had  not  floated,  and  would 
not  now. 

We  have  seen  that,  in  the  light  thrown  upon 
her  fault  from  the  revived  memory  of  his  own,  a 
reaction  had  set  in  :  the  tide  of  it  grew  fiercer  as  it  ran. 
He  had  deposed  her  idol — the  God  who  she  believed 
could  pardon,  and  the  bare  belief  in  whom  certainly 
could  comfort  her ;  he  had  taken  the  place  with  her  of 
that  imaginary,  yet,  for  some,  necessary  being  ;  but  when, 
in  the  agony  of  repentant  shame,  she  looked  to  him  for 
the  pardon  he  alone  could  give  her,  he  had  turned  from 
her  with  loathing,  contempt,  and  insult !  He  was  the  one 
in  the  whole  earth,  who,  by  saying  to  her  Let  it  be  for- 
gotten, could  have  lifted  her  into  life  and  hope !  She  had 
'trusted  in  him,  and  he,  an  idol  indeed,  had  crumbled 
in  the  clinging  arms  of  her  faith  !  Had  she  not  confessed 
to  him  what  else  he  would  never  have  known,  humbling 
herself  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  repentance  ?  Was  it  not  an 
honour  to  any  husband  to  have  been  so  trusted  by  his 
wife  ?  And  had  he  not  from  very  scorn  refused  to  strike 
her !  Was  she  not  a  woman  still  ?  a  being  before  whom 
a  man,  when  he  can  no  longer  worship,  must  Aveep  ? 
Could  any  fault,  ten  times  worse  than  she  had  committed, 
make  her  that  she  was  no  woman  ?  that  he,  merely  as  a 
man,  owed  her  nothing?  Her  fault  was  grievous;  it 
stung  him  to  the  soul :  what  then  was  it  not  to  her  ? 
Not  now  for  his  own  shame  merely,  or  the  most,  did  he 


EMPTY  HOUSES.  4^7 

lament  it,  but  for  the  pity  of  it,  that  the  lovely  creature 
should  not  be  clean,  had  not  deserved  his  adoration  ;  that 
she  was  not  the  ideal  woman  ;  that  a  glory  had  vanislied 
from  the  earth  ;  that  she  he  had  loved  was  not  in  herself 
worthy.  What  then  must  be  her  sadness  !  And  this  was 
his — the  man's — response  to  her  agony,  this  his  balm 
for  her  woe,  his  chivahy,  his  manhood — to  dasli  lier  from 
him,  and  do  his  potent  part  to  fix  for  ever  upon  her  the 
stain  which  he  bemoaned  !  Stained  ?  Why  then  did  he 
not  open  his  arms  wide  and  take  her,  poor  sad  stain  and 
all,  to  the  bosom  of  a  love  which,  by  the  very  agony  of  its 
own  grief  and  its  pity  over  hers,  would  have  burned  her 
clean  ?  What  did  it  matter  for  him  ?  What  was  he  ? 
What  was  his  honour  ?  Had  he  had  any,  what  fitter  use 
for  honour  than  to  sacrifice  it  for  the  redemption  of  a 
wife  ?  That  would  be  to  honour  honour.  But  he  had 
none.  There  was  not  a  stone  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
that  would  consent  to  be  thrown  at  her  by  him  ! 

Ah  men  !  men  !  gentlemen !  was  there  ever  such  a  poor 
sneaking  scarecrow  of  an  idol  as  that  gaping  straw- 
stufted  inanity  you  worship,  and  call  honour  ?  It  is  not 
Honour ;  it  is  but  your  honour.  It  is  neither  gold,  nor 
silver,  nor  honest  copper,  but  a  vile,  worthless  pinchbeck. 
It  may  be,  however,  for  I  have  not  the  honour  to  belong 
to  any  of  your  clubs,  that  you  no  longer  insult  the  word 
by  using  it  at  all.  It  may  be  you  have  deposed  it,  and 
enthroned  another  word  of  less  significance  to  you  still. 
But  what  the  recognized  slang  of  the  day  may  be  is  nothing 
— therefore  unnecessary  to  what  I  have  to  say — which  is, 
that  the  man  is  a  wretched  ape  who  will  utter  a  word 
about  a  woman's  virtue,  when  in  himself,  soul  and  body, 
there  is  not  a  clean -spot;  when  his  body  nothing  but 
the  furnace  of  the  grave,  his  soul  nothing  but  the  eternal 
fire  can  purify.  For  him  is  many  a  harlot  far  too  good  : 
.she  is  yet  capable  of  devotion  ;  she  would,  like  her  sisters 
of  old,  recognize  the  holy  if  she  saw  him,  while  he  would 
pass  by  his  maker  with  a  rude  stare,  or  the  dullness  of  the 
brute  which  he  has  so  assiduously  cultivated  in  him. 
H  H  2 


468  PAUL  T'-AlsER. 

By  degrees  Faber  grew  thoroughly  disgusted  with 
himself,  then  heartily  ashamed.  Were  it  possible  for  me 
to  give  every  finest  shade  and  gradation  of  the  change 
he  underwent,  there  would  be  still  an  unrepresented  mys- 
tery which  I  had  not  compassed.  But  were  my  analysis 
correct  as  fact  itself,  and  my  showing  of  it  as  exact  as 
words  could  make  it,  never  a  man  on  whom  some  such 
change  had  not  at  least  begun  to  pass,  would  find  in  it 
any  revelation.  He  ceased  altogether  to  vaunt  his  denials, 
not  that  now  he  had  discarded  them,  but  simply  because 
he  no  longer  delighted  in  them.  They  were  not  in- 
teresting to  him  any  more.  He  grew  yet  paler  and 
thinner.  He  ate  litde  and  slept  ill— and  the  waking 
hours  of  the  night  were  hours  of  torture.  He  was  out 
of  health,  and  he  knew  it,  but  that  did  not  comfort 
him.  It  was  wrong  and  its  misery  that  had  made 
him  ill,  not  illness  tliat  had  made  him  miserable. 
Was  he  a  weakling,  a  fool,  not  to  let  the  past  be  the 
past  ?  "  Things  without  all  remedy  should  be  without 
regard  :  what's  done  is  done."  But  not  every  strong  man 
who  has  buried  his  murdered  in  his  own  garden,  and 
set  up  no  stone  over  them,  can  forget  where  they  lie. 
It  needs  something  that  is  not  strength  to  be  capable  of 
that.  The  dead  alone  can  bury  their  dead  so  ;  and  there 
is  a  bemoaning  that  may  help  to  raise  the  dead.  But 
sometimes  such  dead  come  alive  unbemoaned.  Obli- 
vion is  not  a  tomb  strong  enough  to  keep  them  down. 
The  time  may  come  when  a  man  will  find  his  past  but 
a  cenotaph,  and  its  dead  all  walking  and  making  his 
present  night  hideous.  And  when  such  dead  walk  so,  it  is 
a  poor  chance  they  do  not  turn  out  vampires. 

When  siie  had  buried  her  dead  out  of  her  sight,  Dorothy 
stjught  solitude  and  the  things  unseen  more  than  ever. 
The  Wingfolds  were  like  swallows  about  her,  never  fold- 
ing their  wings  of  ministry,  but  not  haunting  her  with 
bodily  visitation.  She  never  refused  to  see  them,  but 
they  understood  :  the  hour  was  not  yet  when  their  j^re- 
sence  would  be  a  comfort  to  her.     Tlie  only  comfort  the 


EMPIY  HOUSES.  469 

heart  can  take  must  come — not  from,  but  through  itself. 
Day  after  day  she  would  go  into  the  park,  avoiding  the 
lodge,  and  there  brood  on  the  memories  of  her  father  and 
his  late  words.  And  ere  long  she  began  to  feel  nearer  to 
him  than  she  had  ever  felt  while  he  was  with  her.  For, 
where  the  outward  sign  has  been  understood,  the  with- 
drawing of  it  will  bring  the  inward  fact  yet  nearer.  When 
our  Lord  said  the  spirit  of  himself  would  come  to  them 
after  he  was  gone,  he  but  promised  the  working  of  one 
of  the  laws  of  his  Father's  kingdom  :  it  was  about  to 
operate  in  loftiest  grade. 

Most  people  find  the  first  of  a  bereavement  more  toler- 
able than  what  follows.  They  find  in  its  fever  a  support. 
"When  the  wound  in  the  earth  is  closed,  and  the  wave  of 
life  has  again  rushed  over  it,  when  things  have  returned 
to  their  wonted,  now  desiccated  show,  then  the  very 
Sahara  of  desolation  opens  around  them,  and  for  a  time 
existence  seems  almost  insupportable.  ^Vith  Dorothy  it 
was  different.  Alive  in  herself,  she  was  hungering  and 
thirsting  after  life,  therefore  death  could  not  have  dominion 
over  her. 

To  her  surprise  she  found  also — she  could  not  tell  how 
the  illumination  had  come — she  wondered  even  how  it 
should  ever  have  been  absent — that,  since  her  father's 
death,  many  of  her  difficulties  had  vanished.  Some  of 
them,  remembering  there  had  been  such,  she  could  hardly 
recall  sufficiently  to  recognize  them.  She  had  been  lifted 
into  a  region  above  that  wherein  moved  the  questions 
which  had  then  disturbed  her  peace.  From  a  point  of 
clearer  vision,  she  saw  the  things  themselves  so  difterent, 
that  those  questions  were  no  longer  relevant.  The  things 
themselves  misconceived,  naturally  no  satisfaction  can  be 
got  from  meditation  upon  them,  or  from  answers  sought 
to  the  questions  they  suggest.  If  it  be  objected  that  she 
had  no  better  ground  for  believing  than  before,  I  answer 
that,  if  a  man  should  be  drawing  life  from  the  heart  of 
God,  it  could  matter  little  though  he  were  unable  to  give 
a  satisfactory  account  of  the  mode  of  its  derivation.    That 


470  PAUL  FABER. 

the  man  lives  is  enough.  That  another  denies  the  exist- 
ence of  any  such  Hfe  save  in  tlie  man's  self-fooled  im- 
agination, is  nothing  to  the  man  who  lives  it.  His 
business  is  not  to  raise  the  dead,  but  to  live — not  to  con- 
vince the  blind  that  there  is  such  a  faculty  as  sight,  but 
to  make  good  use  of  his  eyes.  He  may  not  have  an 
answer  to  any  one  objection  raised  by  the  adoptive  chil- 
dren of  Science — their  adopted  mother  raises  none — to 
that  which  he  believes ;  but  there  is  no  more  need  that 
that  should  trouble  him,  than  that  a  child  should  doubt 
his  bliss  at  his  mother's  breast,  because  he  cannot  give 
the  chemical  composition  of  the  milk  he  draws  :  that  in 
the  thing  which  is  the  root  of  the  bliss,  is  rather  beyond 
chemistr}'.  Is  a  man  not  blest  in  his  honesty,  being 
unable  to  reason  of  the  first  grounds  of  property  ?  If  there 
be  truth,  that  truth  must  be  itself — must  exercise  its  own 
blessing  nature  upon  the  soul  which  receives  it  in  loyal 
understanding — that  is,  in  obedience.  A  man  may  accept 
no  end  of  things  as  facts  which  are  not  facts,  and  his  mis- 
takes will  not  hurt  him.  He  may  be  unable  to  receive 
many  facts  as  facts,  and  neither  they  nor  his  refusal  of 
them  will  hurt  him.  He  may  not  a  whit  the  less  be 
living  in  and  by  the  truth.  He  may  be  quite  unable  to 
answer  the  doubts  of  another,  but  if,  in  the  progress  of 
his  life,  those  doubts  should  present  themselves  to  his 
own  soul,  then  will  he  be  able  to  meet  them :  he  is  in  the 
region  where  all  true  answers  are  gathered.  He  may  be 
unable  to  receive  this  or  that  embodiment  or  form  of 
truth,  not  having  yet  grown  to  its  level ;  but  it  is  no 
matter  so  long  as  when  he  sees  a  truth  he  does  it :  to 
see  and  not  do  would  at  once  place  him  in  eternal  danger. 
Hence  a  man  of  ordinary  intellect  and  little  imagin- 
ation, may  yet  be  so  radiant  in  nobility  as,  to  the  true 
poet-heart,  to  be  right  worshipful.  There  is  in  the  man 
who  does  the  trifth  the  radiance  of  life  essential, 
eternal — a  glory  infinitely  beyond  any  that  can  belong 
to  the  intellect,  beyond  any  that  can  ever  come  within 
its    scope    to    be    judged,   proven,   or    denied    by  it. 


EMPTY  HO  USES.  4  7 1 

'J'hroiigh  experiences  doubtful  even  to  the  soul  in  which 
Ihcy  pass,  the  life  may  yet  be  flowing  in.  To  know  God 
is  to  be  in  the  secret  place  of  all  knowledge  ;  and  to  trust 
liini  changes  the  atmosphere  surrounding  mystery  and 
seeming  contradiction,  from  one  of  pain  and  fear  to  one 
of  hope :  the  unknown  may  be  some  lovely  truth  in 
store  for  us,  which  yet  we  are  not  good  enough  to  appre- 
hend. A  man  may  dream  all  niglit  that  he  is  awake,  and 
when  he  does  wake,  be  none  the  less  sure  that  he  is 
awake  in  that  he  thought  so  all  the  night  when  he  was 
not ;  but  he  will  find  himself  no  more  able  to  prove  it 
than  he  would  have  been  then,  only  able  to  talk  better 
about  it.  The  differing  consciousnesses  of  the  two  con- 
ditions cannot  be  produced  in  evidence,  or  embodied  in 
forms  of  the  understanding.  But  my  main  point  is  this, 
that  not  to  be  intellectually  certain  of  a  truth,  docs  not 
prevent  the  heart  that  loves  and  obeys  that  truth  from 
getting  its  truth-good,  from  drawing  life  from  its  holy 
factness,  present  in  the  love  of  it. 

As  yet  Dorothy  had  no  plans,  except  to  carry  out 
those  of  her  father,  and,  mainly  for  Juliet's  sake,  to 
remove  to  the  Old  House  as  soon  as  ever  the  work  there 
was  completed.  But  the  repairs  and  alterations  were  of 
some  extent,  and  took  months.  Nor  was  she  desirous 
of  shortening  Juliet's  sojourn  with  the  Polwarths  :  the 
longer  that  lasted  with  safety,  the  better  for  Juliet,  and 
herself  too,  she  thought. 

On  Christmas  eve,  the  curate  gave  his  wife  a  little 
poem.  Helen  showed  it  to  Dorothy,  and  Dorothy  to 
Juliet.  By  this  time  she  had  had  some  genuine  teaching 
— far  more  than  she  recognized  as  such,  and  the  spiritual 
song  was  not  altogether  without  influence  upon  her. 
Here  it  is ; 

THAT  HOLY  THING. 

They  all  were  looking  for  a  king 

To  slay  ihcir  foes,  and  lift  them  high  : 

Thou  cam'st  a  little  baby  thing 
That  made  a  woman  cry. 


PAUL  FAB  Eli. 

O  Son  of  Man,  to  liglU  my  lot 

Nought  Init  thy  presence  can  avail  ; 

Yet  on  tlie  road  thy  wheels  are  not, 
Nor  on  the  sea  thy  sail. 

My  how  or  when  thou  wilt  not  heed, 
But  come  down  thnie  own  secret  stair, 

Tliat  thou  mayst  answer  all  my  need, 
Yea,  every  by-gone  prayer. 


CHAPTER  L. 


FALLOW      FIELDS. 


^^M^HE  spring  was  bursting  in  bud  and  leaf  before 
^^M,  the  workmen  were  out  of  the  Old  House. 
'  %k  The  very  next  day,  Dorothy  commenced  her 
WM%  removal.  Every  stick  of  the  old  furniture 
<5^^^*!jS  she  carried  with  her;  every  book  of  her 
father's  she  placed  on  the  shelves  of  the  library  he  had 
designed.  But  she  took  care  not  to  seem  neglectful  of 
Juliet,  never  failing  to  carry  her  the  report  of  her  hus- 
band as  often  as  she  saw  him.  It  was  to  Juliet  like 
an  odom-  from  Paradise  making  her  weep,  when  Dorothy 
said  that  he  looked  sad — "so  different  from  his  old  self!'' 

One  day  Dorothy  ventured,  hardly  to  hint,  but  to 
approach  a  hint  of  mediation.  Juliet  rose  indignant :  no 
one,  Avere  he  an  angel  from  heaven,  shoukl  interfere 
between  her  husband  and  her  !  If  they  could  not  come 
together  without  that,  there  should  be  a  mediator,  but 
not  such  as  Dorothy  meant  ! 

"  No,  Dorothy !"  she  resumed,  after  a  rather  prolonged 
silence  ;  "  the  very  word  vicdiatioii  would  imply  a  gulf 
between  us  that  could  not  be  passed.  But  I  have  one 
petition  to  make  to  you,  Dorothy.  You  will  be  with  me 
in  my  trouble — won't  you  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Juliet — please  God,  I  will," 


474  PAUL  FABER. 

"Then  promise  me,  if  I  can't  get  through— if  I  am 
going  to  die,  that  you  will  bring  him  to  me.  I  viiist  see 
my  Paul  once  again  before  the  darkness." 

"Wouldn't  that  be  rather  unkind — rather  selfish?" 
returned  Dorothy. 

She  had  been  growing  more  and  more  pitiful  of  Paul. 

Juliet  burst  into  tears,  called  Dorothy  cruel,  said  she 
meant  to  kill  her.  How  was  she  to  face  it  but  in  the 
hope  of  death  ?  and  how  was  she  to  face  death  but  in  the 
hope  of  seeing  Paul  once  again  for  the  last  time  ?  She 
was  certain  she  was  going  to  die ;  she  knew  it  !  and  if 
Dorothy  would  not  promise,  she  was  not  going  to  wait  for 
such  a  death ! 

"  But  there  will  be  a  doctor,"  said  Dorothy,  "  and  how 
am  I " 

Juliet  interrupted  her — not  with  tears  but  words  of 
indignation  :  Did  Dorothy  dare  imagine  she  would  allow 
any  man  but  her  Paul  to  come  near  her?  Did  she? 
Could  she  ?  '\^^hat  did  she  think  of  her  ?  But  of  course 
she  was  prejudiced  against  her  !     It  was  too  cruel ! 

The  moment  she  could  get  in  a  word,  Dorothy 
begged  her  to  say  what  she  wished. 

"  You  do  not  imagine,  Juliet,"  she  said,  "  that  I  could 
take  such  a  responsibility  on  myself !" 

"  I  have  thought  it  all  over,"  answered  Juliet.  "  There 
are  women  properly  qualified,  and  you  must  find  one. 
When  she  says  I  am  dying, — when  she  gets  frightened, 
you  v.ill  send  for  my  husband?     Promise  me." 

"  Juliet,  I  will,"  answered  Dorothy,  and  Juliet  was 
satisfied. 

But  notwidistanding  her  behaviour's  continuing  so 
much  the  same,  a  change,  undivined  by  herself  as  well  as 
unsuspected  by  her  friend,  had  begun  to  pass  upon 
Juliet.  Every  change  must  begin  farther  back  than  the 
observation  of  man  can  reach — in  regions,  probably,  of 
which  we  have  no  knowledge.  To  the  eyes  of  his  own 
wife,  a  man  may  seem  in  the  gall  of  bitterness  and  the 
bond  of  initjuity,  ^\■hcn  "  larger,    other  eyes  than  ours" 


FALLOW  FIELDS.  475 

may  be  watching  with  deHght  the  germ  of  lightcousncss 
swell  within  the 'inclosing  husk  of  evil.  Sooner  might  the 
man  of  science  detect  the  first  moment  of  aclmic  impact, 
and  the  simultaneously  following  change  in  the  hitherto 
slumbering  acorn,  than  the  watcher  of  humanity  make 
himself  aware  of  the  first  movement  of  repentance.  The 
influences  now  for  some  time  operative  upon  her,  were 
the  more  powerful  that  she  neither  suspected  nor  could 
avoid  them.  She  had  a  vague  notion  that  she  Avas  kind 
to  her  host  and  hostess  ;  that  she  was  patronizing  them  ; 
that  her  friend  Dorothy,  with  whom  she  would  afterwards 
arrange  the  matter,  filled  their  hands  for  her  use ;  that, 
in  fact,  they  derived  benefit  from  her  presence ;— and 
surely  they  did,  although  not  as  she  supposed.  The 
only  benefits  they  reaped  were  invaluable  ones — such  as 
spring  from  love  and  righteousness  and  neighbourhood. 
She  little  thought  how  she  interfered  with  the  simple 
pleasures  and  comforts  of  the  two  ;  how  many  a  visit  of 
friends,  whose  talk  was  a  holy  revelry  of  thought  and 
utterance,  Polwarth  warded,  to  avoid  the  least  danger 
of  her  discovery ;  how  often  fear  for  her  shook  the 
delicate  frame  of  Ruth ;  how  often  her  host  left  some 
book  unbought,  that  he  might  prociire  instead  some  thing 
to  tempt  her  to  eat ;  how  often  her  hostess  turned  faint 
in  cooking  for  her.  The  crooked  creatures  pitied,  as 
well  they  might,  the  lovely  lady;  they  believed  that 
Christ  v%'as  in  her;  that  the  deepest  in  her  was  the 
nature  he  had  made — his  own,  and  not  that  which  she 
had  gathered  to  herself— and  thought  her  own.  For  the 
sake  of  the  Christ  hidden  in  her,  her  own  deepest,  best, 
purest  self;  that  she  might  be  lifted  from  the  dust-heap  of 
the  life  she  had  for  herself  ruined,  into  the  clear  air  of  a 
pure  will  and  the  divine  presence,  they  counted  their  best 
labour  most  fitly  spent.  It  is  the  human  we  love  in 
each  other — and  the  human  is  the  Christ.  What  we  do 
not  love  is  the  devilish— no  more  the  human  than  the 
morrow's  wormy  mass  was  the  manna  of  Cod.  To  be 
for  the  Christ  in  a  man,  is  the  highest  love  you  can  give 


476  PAUL  FABER. 

him ;  for  in  the  unfolding  alone  of  that  Christ,  can  the 
individuality,  the  genuine  peculiarity  of  the  man,  the 
man  himself,  be  perfected — the  flower  of  his  nature  be 
developed,  in  its  own  distinct  loveliness,  beauty, 
splendour,  and  brought  to  its  idea. 

The  main  channel  through  which  the  influences  of  the 
gnomes  reached  the  princess,  was  their  absolutesimplicity. 
They  spoke  and  acted  what  was  in  them.  Through  this 
open  utterance,  their  daily,  common  righteousness  re- 
vealed itself— their  gendeness,  their  love  of  all  things 
living,  their  care  of  each  other,  their  acceptance  as  the 
will  of  God  concerning  them  of  whatever  came,  their 
general  satisfaction  with  things  as  they  were — though  it 
must  in  regard  to  some  of  them  have  been  in  the  hope 
that  they  would  soon  pass  away,  for  one  of  the  things  Juliet 
least  could  fail  to  observe  was  their  suffering  patience. 
They  always  spoke  as  if  they  felt  where  their  words  were 
going — as  if  they  were  hearing  them  arrive — as  if  the 
mind  they  addressed  were  a  bright  silver  table  on  which 
they  must  not  set  down  even  the  cup  of  the  water  of  life 
roughly  :  it  must  make  no  scratch,  no  jar,  no  sound 
beyond  a  faint  sweet  salutation.  Pain  had  taught  them 
not  sensitiveness  but  delicacy.  A  hundred  are  sensitive 
for  one  that  is  delicate.  Sensitiveness  is  a  miserable,  a 
cheap  thing  in  itself,  but  invaluable  if  it  be  used  for  the 
nurture  of  delicacy.  They  refused  to  receive  offence, 
their  care  was  to  give  none.  The  burning  spot  in 
the  centre  of  that  distorted  spine,  which  ought  to  have 
lifted  Ruth  up  to  a  lovely  woman,  but  had  failed  and 
sunk,  and  ever  after  ached  bitterly  as  if  Avith  defeat,  had 
made  her  pitiful  over  the  pains  of  humanity :  she  could 
bear  it,  for  there  was  something  in  her  deeper  than  pain  ; 
but  alas  for  those  who  were  not  thus  upheld  !  Her 
agony  drove  her  to  pray  for  the  whole  human  race,  ex- 
posed to  like  passion  with  her.  The  asthmatic  choldng- 
which  so  often  made  Polwarth's  nights  a  long  misery, 
taught  him  sympathy  with  all  prisoners  and  captives, 
chiefly  with  those  bound  in  the  bonds  of  an  evil  con- 


FALL 0  W  FIELDS.  477 

science :  to  such  he  held  liimself  specially  devoted. 
They  thought  little  of  bearing  pain :  to  know  they  had 
caused  it  would  have  been  torture.  Each  graciously 
uncomplaining,  was  tender  over  the  ailing  of  the  otlier. 

Juliet  had  not  been  long  with  them  before  she  found 
the  garments  she  had  in  her  fancy  made  for  them,  did 
not  ht  them,  and  she  had  to  devise  afresh.  They  were 
not  gnomes,  kobolds,  goblins,  or  dwarfs,  but  a  prince 
and  princess  of  sweet  nobility,  who  had  loved  each  other 
in  beauty  and  strength,  and  knew  that  they  were  each 
crushed  in  the  shell  of  a  cruel  and  mendacious  enchant- 
ment. How  they  served  each  other  !  The  uncle  would 
just  as  readily  help  the  niece  with  her  saucepans,  as  the 
niece  would  help  the  uncle  to  find  a  passage  in  Shaks- 
pere  or  a  stanza  in  George  Herbert. — And  to  hear  them 
talk! 

For  some  time  Juliet  did  not  understand  them,  and  did 
not  try.  She  had  not  an  idea  what  they  were  talking 
about.  Then  she  began  to  imagine  they  must  be  weak  in 
the  brain — a  thing  not  unlikely  ^vith  such  spines  as  theirs 
— and  had  silly  secrets  with  each  other,  like  children,  which 
they  enjoyed  talking  about  chiefly  because  none  could 
understand  but  themselves.  Then  she  came  to  fancy  it 
was  herself  and  her  aftairs  they  were  talking  about,  deli- 
berating upon — in  some  mental  if  not  lingual  gibberish 
of  their  own.  By  and  by  it  began  to  disclose  itself  to 
her,  that  the  wretched  creatures,  to  mask  their  misery 
from  themselves,  were  actually  playing  at  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  speaking  and  judging  and  concluding  of  things 
of  this  world  by  quite  other  laws,  other  scales,  other 
weights  and  measures  than  those  in  use  in  it.  Ever\'thing 
was  turned  topsy-turvy  in  this  their  game  of  make-believe. 
Their  religion  was  their  chief  end  and  interest,  and  their 
work  their  play,  as  lightly  followed  as  diligently.  What 
she  counted  their  fancies,  they  seemed  to  count  their 
business ;  their  fancies  ran  over  upon  their  labour,  and 
made  every  day  look  and  feel  like  a  harvest-home,  or 
the  eve  of  a  long-desired  journey,  for  which  every  pre- 


478  PAUL  FABER. 

paration  but  the  last  and  lightest  was  over.  Things  in 
which  she  saw  no  significance  made  them  look  very  grave, 
and  what  she  would  have  counted  of  some  importance 
to  such  as  they,  drew  a  mere  smile  from  them.  She 
saw  all  with  bewildered  eyes,  much  as  his  neighbours 
looked  upon  the  strange  carriage  of  I.azarus,  as  repre- 
sented by  Robert  Browning  in  the  wonderful  letter  of  the 
Arab  physician.  But  after  she  had  begun  to  take  note 
of  their  sufferings,  and  come  to  mark  their  calm,  their 
peace,  their  lighted  eyes,  their  ready  smiles,  the  patience 
of  their  very  moans,  she  began  to  doubt  whether  somehow 
they  might  not  be  touched  to  finer  issues  than  she.  It 
was  not,  however,  until  after  having,  with  no  little  reluc- 
tance''and  recoil,  ministered  to  them  upon  an  occasion  in 
which  both  were  disabled  for  some  hours,  that  she  began 
to  feel  they  had  a  hold  upon  something  unseen,  the 
firmness  of  which  'hold  made  it  hard  to  believe  it  closed 
upon  an  unreality.  If  there  was  nothing  there,  then  these 
dwarfs,  in  the  exercise  of  their  foolish,  diseased,  distorted 
fancies,  came  nearer  to  the  act  of  creation  than  any 
grandest  of  poets;  for  these  their  inventions  did  more 
than  rectify  for  them  the  wrongs  of  their  existence,  not 
only  making  of  their  chaos  a  habitable  cosmos,  but  of 
themselves  heroic  dwellers  in  the  same.  Within  the 
charmed  circle  of  this  their  well-being,  their  unceasing 
ministrations  to  her  wants,  their  thoughtfulness  about  her 
likings  and  dislikings,  their  sweetness  of  address,  and 
wistful  watching  to  discover  the  desire  they  might  satisfy, 
or  the  solace  they  could  bring,  seemed  every  moment 
enticing  her.  They  soothed  the  aching  of  her  wounds, 
mollified  with  ointment  the  stinging  rents  in  her  wronged 
humanity. 

At  first,  when  she  found  they  had  no  set  prayers  in  the 
house,  she  concluded  that,  for  all  the  talk  of  the  old 
gnome  in  the  garden,  they  were  not  very  religious.  But 
by  and  by  she  began  to  discover  that  no  one  could  tell 
when  they  might  not  be  praying.  At  the  most  unex- 
pected times  she  would  hear  her  host's  voice  somewhere 


LALL 0 IV  FIELDS.  479 

Uttering  tones  of  glad  beseeching,  of  out-poured  adora- 
tion. One  day,  when  she  had  a  bad  headache,  the  httle 
man  came  into  her  room,  and,  without  a  word  to  her, 
kneeled  by  her  bedside,  and  said,  "  Father,  who  through 
thy  Son  knowest  pain,  and  who  dost  even  now  in  thyself 
feel  the  pain  of  this  thy  child,  help  her  to  endure  until 
thou  shalt  say  it  is  enough,  and  send  it  from  her.  Let  it 
not  overmaster  her  patience ;  let  it  not  be  too  much  for 
her.  ^\'hat  good  it  shall  work  in  her,  thou.  Lord,  needest 
not  that  we  should  instruct  thee."  Therewith  he  rose, 
and  left  the  room. 

Lor  some  Aveeks  after,  she  was  jealous  of  latent  design 
to  bring  their  religion  to  bear  upon  her ;  but  perceiving 
not  a  single  direct  approach,  not  the  most  covert  hint  of 
attack,  she  became  gradually  convinced  that  they  had  no 
such  intent.  Polwarth  was  an  absolute  serpent  of  holy 
wisdom,  and  knew  that  upon  certain  conditions  of  the 
human  being  the  only  powerful  influences  of  religion  are 
the  all  but  insensible  ones.  A  man's  religion,  he  said, 
ought  never  to  be  held  too  near  his  neighbour.  It  was 
like  violets :  hidden  in  the  banks,  they  fill  the  air 
with  their  scent ;  but  if  a  bunch  of  them  is  held  to  the 
nose,  they  stop  away  their  own  sweetness. 

Not  unfrequently  she  heard  one  of  them  reading  to 
the  other,  and  by  and  by  came  to  join  them  occa- 
sionally. Sometimes  it  would  be  a  passage  of  the  New 
Testament,  sometimes  of  Shakspere,  or  of  this  or  that 
old  English  book,  of  which,  in  her  so-called  education, 
Juliet  had  never  even  heard,  but  of  which  the  gatekeeper 
knew  e\ery  landmark.  He  would  often  stop  the  reading 
to  talk,  explaining  and  illustrating  what  the  writer  meant, 
in  a  way  that  filled  Juliet  with  wonder.  "  Strange  !"  she 
would  say  to  herself;  "I  never  thought  of  that!" 
She  did  not  suspect  that  it  would  have  been  strange 
indeed  if  she  had  thought  of  it. 

In  her  soul  began  to  spring  a  respect  for  her  host  and 
hostess,  such  as  she  had  never  felt  towards  God  or  man. 
When,  despite  of  many  revulsions  it  was  a  little  estab- 


48o  PAUL  FABER. 

lished,  it  naturally  went  beyond  them  in  the  direction 
of  that  which  they  revered.  The  momentary  hush  that 
preceded  tlie  name  of  our  Lord,  and  the  smile  that  so 
often  came  with  it ;  the  halo,  as  it  were,  which  in  their 
feeling  surrounded  him  ;  the  confidence  of  closest  under- 
standing, the  radiant  humility  with  which  they  approached 
his  idea ;  the  way  in  whicli  they  brought  the  commonest 
question  side  by  side  with  the  ideal  of  him  in  their  minds, 
considering  the  one  in  the  light  of  the  other,  and  answering 
it  thereby;  the  way  in  which  they  took  all  he  said  and  did 
on  the  fundamental  understanding  that  his  relation  to 
God  was  perfect,  but  his  relation  to  men  as  yet  an  im- 
perfect, endeavouring  relation,  because  of  their  distance 
from  his  Father ;  these,  with  many  another  outcome  of 
their  genuine  belief,  began  at  length  to  make  her  feel,  not 
merely  as  if  there  had  been,  but  as  if  there  really  were 
such  a  person  as  Jesus  Christ.  The  idea  of  him  ruled 
potent  in  the  lives  of  the  two,  filling  heart  and  brain  and 
hands  and  feet :  how  could  she  help  a  certain  awe  before 
it,  such  as  she  had  never  felt  ! 

Suddenly  one  day,  the  suspicion  awoke  in  her  mind, 
that  the  reason  why  they  asked  her  no  questions,  put 
out  no  feelers  after  discovery  concerning  her,  must  be 
that  Dorothy  had  told  them  everything  :  if  it  was,  never 
again  would  she  utter  word  good  or  bad  to  one  whose 
very  kindness,  she  said  to  herself,  was  betrayal  !  The 
first  moment  therefore  she  saw  Polwarth  alone,  unable  to 
be  still  an  instant  with  her  doubt  unsolved,  she  asked 
him,  "  with  sick  assay,"  but  point-blank,  whether  he 
knew  why  she  was  in  hiding  from  her  husband. 

"  I  do  not  know,  ma'am,"  he  answered. 

"  Miss  Drake  told  you  nothing  ?"  pursued  Juliet. 

"  Nothing  more  than  I  knew  already  :  that  she  could 
not  deny  when  I  put  it  to  her." 

"  But  how  did  you  know  anything?"  she  almost  cried 
out,  in  a  sudden  rush  of  terror  as  to  what  the  public  know- 
ledge of  her  might  after  all  be. 

"  If  you  will  remember,  ma'am,"  Polwarth  replied,  "  I 


FALL  0  W  FLELDS.  48 1 

told  you,  the  first  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to 
you,  that  it  was  by  observing  and  reasoning  upon  wliat 
I  observed,  that  I  knew  you  were  alive  and  at  the  Old 
House.  But  it  may  be  some  satisfaction  to  you  to  see 
how  the  thing  took  shape  in  my  mind." 

Thereupon  he  set  tlie  whole  process  plainly  before 
her. 

Fresh  wonder,  mingled  with  no  little  fear,  laid  hold 
upon  Juliet.  She  felt  not  merely  as  if  he  could  look  into 
her,  but  as  if  he  had  only  to  look  into  himself  to  discover 
all  her  secrets. 

"  I  should  not  have  imagined  you  a  person  to  trouble 
himself  to  that  extent  with  other  people's  affairs,"  she 
said,  turning  away. 

"  So  far  as  my  service  can  reach,  the  things  of  others 
are  also  mine,"  replied  Polwarth,  very  gently. 

"  But  you  could  not  have  had  the  smallest  idea  of 
serving  me  when  you  made  all  those  observations  con- 
cerning me." 

"  I  had  long  desired  to  serve  your  husband,  ma'am. 
Never  from  curiosity  would  I  have  asked  a  single  question 
about  you  or  your  affairs.  But  what  came  to  me,  I  was 
at  liberty  to  understand  if  I  could,  and  use  for  lawful 
ends  if  I  might." 

Juliet  was  silent.  She  dared  hardly  think,  lest  the 
gnome  should  see  her  very  thoughts  in  their  own  dark- 
ness. Yet  she  yielded  to  one  more  urgent  question 
that  kept  pushing  to  get  out.  She  tried  to  say  the  words 
without  thinking  of  the  thing,  lest  he  should  thereby 
learn  it. 

"  I  suppose  then  you  have  your  own  theory  as  to  my 
reasons  for  seeking  shelter  with  Miss  Drake  for  a  while  ?" 
she  said — and  the  moment  she  said  it,  felt  as  if  some 
demon  had  betrayed  her,  and  used  her  organs  to  utter 
the  words. 

"  If  I  have,  ma'am,"  answered  Polwarth,  "  it  is  for 
myself  alone.  I  know  the  sacredness  of  married  life 
too  well  to  speculate  irreverently  on  its  affairs.  I  believe 
1 1 


4S2  rAUL  r.lBER. 

that  many  an  awful  crisis  of  human  history  is  there  passed 
— such,  I  presume,  as  God  only  sees  and  understands. 
The  more  carefully  such  are  kept  from  the  common  eye 
and  the  common  judgment,  the  better,  I  think." 

If  Juliet  left  him  with  yet  a  litUe  added  fear,  it  was 
also  with  growing  confidence,  and  some  comfort,  which 
the  feeble  presence  of  an  infant  humility  served  to 
enlarge. 

Polwarth  had  not  given  nmch  thought  to  the  question 
of  the  cause  of  their  separation.  That  was  not  of  his 
business.  What  he  could  not  well  avoid  seeing  was,  that 
it  could  hardly  have  taken  place  since  their  marriage. 
He  had  at  once,  as  a  matter  of  course,  concluded  that  it 
lay  with  the  husband,  but  from  what  lie  had  since  learned 
of  Juliet's  character,  he  knew  she  had  not  the  strength 
either  of  moral  opinion  or  of  will  to  separate,  for  any 
reason  past  and  gone,  from  the  husband  she  loved  so 
passionately;  and  there  he  stopped,  refusing  to  think 
farther.  For  he  found  himself  on  the  verge  of  thinking 
what,  in  his  boundless  respect  for  women,  he  shrank  with 
deepest  repugnance  from  entertaining  even  as  a  transient 
flash  of  conjecture. 

One  trifle  I  will  here  mention,  as  admitting  laterally  a 
single  ray  of  light  upon  Polwarth's  character.  Juliet  had 
come  to  feel  some  desire  to  be  useful  in  the  house  beyond 
her  own  room,  and  descrying  not  only  dust,  but  what 
she  judged  disorder  in  her  landlonrs  little  library — for 
such  she  chose  to  consider  him — which,  to  her  astonish- 
ment in  such  a  mere  cottage,  consisted  of  many  more 
books  than  her  husband's,  and  ten  times  as  many  read- 
able ones,  she  offered  to  dust  and  rearrange  them  properly : 
Polwarth  instantly  accepted  her  offer,  with  thanks — which 
were  solely  for  the  kindness  of  the  intent,  he  could  not 
possibly  be  grateful  for  the  intended  result — and  left  his 
books  at  her  mercy.  I  do  not  know  another  man  who, 
loving  his  books  like  Polwarth,  w^ould  have  done  so. 
Every  book  liad   its  own   place.     He  could— I  speak 


FALLOW  FIELDS.  45>3 

advisedly — have  laid  his  hand  on  any  book  of  at  J'east 
three  hundred  of  tliem,  in  the  dark.  While  he  used 
them  with  perfect  freedom,  and  cared  comparatively 
little  about  their  covers,  he  handled  them  widi  a  delicacy 
that  looked  almost  like  respect.  Pie  had  seen  ladies 
handle  books,  he  said,  laughing,  to  Wingfold,  in  a  fashion 
that  would  have  made  him  afraid  to  trust  them  with  a 
child.  It  v.'as  a  year  after  Juliet  left  the  house,  before  he 
got  them  by  degrees  muddled  into  order  again  ;  for  it  was 
only  as  he' used  them  that  he  would  alter  their  places, 
putting  each,  when  he  had  done  with  it  for  the  moment, 
as  near  where  it  had  been  before  as  he  could  ;  thus, 
in  time,  out  of  a  neat  chaos,  restoring  a  useful  work-a- 
day  world. 

Dorothy's  thoughts  were  in  the  meantime  much  occupied 
for  Juliet.  Now  that  she  was  so  sadly  free,  she  could  do 
more  for  her.  She  must  occupy  her  old  quarters  as  soon 
as  possible  after  the  workmen  had  finished.  She  thought 
at  first  of  giving  out  that  a  friend  in  poor  health  was 
coming  to  visit  her,  but  she  soon  saw  that  would  either 
involve  lying  or  lead  to  suspicion,  and  perhaps  discovery, 
and  resolved  to  keep  her  presence  in  the  house  con- 
cealed from  the  outer  world  as  before.  But  what  was 
she  to  do  with  respect  to  Lisbeth  ?  Could  she  trust  her 
with  the  secret?  She  certainly  could  not  trust  Amanda. 
She  would  ask  Helen  to  take  the  latter  for  a  while,  and 
do  her  best  to  secure  the  silence  of  the  former. 

She  so  represented  the  matter  to  Lisbeth  as  to  rouse 
her  heart  in  regard  to  it  even  more  than  her  wonder. 
But  her  injunctions  to  secrecy  were  so  earnest,  that  the 
old  woman  was  offended.  She  was  no  slip  of  a  girl,  she 
said,  wlio  did  not  know  how  to  hold  her  tongue.  She 
had  had  secrets  to  keep  before  now,  she  said ;  and  in 
proof  of  her  perfect  trustworthiness,  was  proceeding  to 
tell  some  of  them,  when  she  read  her  folly  in  Dorothy's 
fixed  regard,  and  ceased. 

"Lisbeth,"  said  her  mistress,  "you  have  been  a  friend 

112 


484  PAUL  FABER. 

for  sixteen  years,  and  I  love  you  ;  but  if  I  find  that  you 
have  given  the  smallest  hint  even  that  there  is  a  secret  in 
the  house,  I  solemnly  vow  you  shall  not  be  another  night 
in  it  yourself,  and  I  shall  ever  after  think  of  you  as  a 
wretched  creature  who  perilled  the  life  of  a  poor  un- 
happy lady  rather  than  take  the  trouble  to  rule  her  own 
tongue." 

Lisbeth  trembled,  and  did  hold  her  tongue,  m  spite  of 
the  temptation  to  feel  herself  for  just  one  instant  the 
most  important  person  in  Glaston. 

As  the  time  went  on,  Juliet  became  more  fretful,  and 
more  confiding.  She  was  never  cross  with  Ruth — why,  she 
could  not  have  told ;  and  when  she  had  been  cross  to 
Dorothy,  she  was  sorry  for  it.  She  never  said  she  was 
sorry,  but  she  tried  to  make  up  for  it.  Her  husband  had 
not  taught  her  the  virtue,  both  for  relief  and  purification, 
that  lies  in  the  acknoivlcdgment  of  wrong.  To  take  up 
blame  that  is  our  own,  is  to  wither  the  very  root  of  it. 

Juliet  was  pleased  at  the  near  prospect  of  the  change, 
for  she  had  naturally  dreaded  being  ill  in  the  limited 
accommodation  of  the  lodge.  She  formally  thanked  the 
two  crushed  and  rumpled  little  angels,  begged  them  to 
visit  her  often,  and  proceeded  to  make  her  very  small 
preparations  with  a  fitful  cheerfulness.  Something 
might  come  of  the  change,  she  flattered  herself  She 
had  always  indulged  a  vague  fancy  that  Dorothy  was 
devising  help  for  her ;  and  it  was  in  part  the  disap- 
pointment of  nothing  having  yet  justified  the  expectation, 
that  had  spoiled  her  behaviour  to  her.  But  for  a  long 
time  Dorothy  had  been  talking  of  Paul  in  a  difterent 
tone,  and  that  very  morning  had  spoken  of  him  even 
with  some  admiration  :  it  might  be  a  prelude  to  some- 
thing !  Most  likely  Dorothy  knew  more  than  she  chose 
to  say  !  She  dared  ask  no  question  for  the  dread  of  find- 
ing herself  mistaken.  She  preferred  the  ignorance  that 
left  room  for  hope.  But  she  did  not  like  all  Dorothy 
said  in  his  praise ;  for  her  tone,  if  not  her  words,  seemed 
to   imply   some   kind    of    change  in   him.       He  might 


FALLOW  FIET,DS.  485 

have  his  faults,  she  said  to  herself,  like  other  men,  but 
she  had  not  yet  discovered  them ;  and  any  change  would, 
in  her  eyes,  be  for  the  worse.  Would  she  ever  see  her 
■own  old  Paul  again  ? 

One  day  as  Faber  was  riding  at  a  good  round  trot 
along  one  of  the  back  streets  of  Cilaston,  approaching 
his  own  house,  he  saw  Amanda,  who  still  took  every 
ojjportunity  of  darting  out  at  an  open  door,  running  to 
liim  with  outstretched  arms,  right  in  the  face  of  Niger, 
just  as  if  she  expected  the  horse  to  stop  and  take  her  up. 
Unable  to  trust  him  so  well  as  his  dear  old  Ruber,  he 
dismounted,  and  taking  her  in  his  arms,  led  Niger  to  his 
stable.  He  learned  from  her  that  she  was  staying  with 
the  Wingfolds,  and  took  her  home,  after  which  his  visits 
to  the  rectory  were  frequent. 

The  Wingfolds  could  not  fail  to  remark  the  tenderness 
with  which  he  regarded  the  child.  Indeed  it  soon 
became  clear  that  it  was  for  her  sake  he  came  to  them. 
The  change  that  had  begun  in  him,  the  loss  of  his  self- 
regard  following  on  the  loss  of  Juliet,  had  left  a  great 
gap  in  his  conscious  being :  into  that  gap  had  instantly 
begun  to  shoot  the  all-clothing  greenery  of  natural  aftec- 
tion.  His  devotion  to  her  did  not  at  first  cause  them 
any  wonderment.  Everybody  loved  the  little  Amanda, 
they  saw  in  him  only  another  of  the  child's  conquests, 
and  rejoiced  in  the  good  the  love  might  do  him.  Even 
when  they  saw  him  looking  fixedly  at  her  with  eyes  over 
clear,  they  set  it  down  to  the  frustrated  affection  of  the 
lonely,  wifeless,  childless  man.  But  by  degrees  they  did 
come  to  wonder  a  little  :  his  love  seemed  to  grow  almost 
a  passion.  Strange  thoughts  began  unbidden  to  move 
in  their  minds,  looking  from  the  one  to  the  other  of  this 
love  and  the  late  tragedy. 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  curate  one  morning,  as  they  sat  at 
breakfast,  "if  only  for  Faber's  sake,  that  something 
definite  was  known  about  poor  Juliet.  There  are  rumours 
in  the  town,  roving  like  poisonous  fogs.  Some  profess  to 
believe  he  has  murdered  her,  getting  rid  of  her  body 


486  PAUL  FABER. 

Utterly,  then  spreading  tlie  report  that  she  had  run  away. 
Others  say  she  is  mad,  and  he  lias  her  in  the  house,  but 
stupefied  with  drugs  to  keep  her  quiet.  Drew  told  me 
he  had  even  heard  it  darkly  hinted  that  he  was  making 
experiments  upon  her,  to  discover  the  nature  of  life.  It 
is  dreadful  to  think  what  a  man  is  exposed  to  from  evil 
imaginations  groping  after  theory.  I  dare  hardly  think 
what  might  happen  should  these  fancies  get  rooted 
among  the  people.  Many  of  them  are  capable  of  bru- 
tality. For  my  part,  I  don't  believe  the  poor  woman  is 
dead  yet." 

Helen  replied  she  did  not  believe  that,  in  her  sound 
mind,  JuUet  would  have  had  the  resolution  to  kill  herself; 
but  who  could  tell  Avhat  state  of  mind  she  was  in  at  the 
time?  There  was  always  something  mysterious  about 
her — something  that  seemed  to  want  explanation. 

Between  them  it  was  concluded  that,  the  next  time 
Faber  came,  Wingfold  should  be  plain  with  him.  He 
therefore  told  him  that  if  he  could  cast  any  light  on  his 
wife's  disappearance,  it  was  most  desirable  he  should  do 
so ;  for  reports  were  abroad  greatly  to  his  disadvantage. 
Faber  answered,  with  a  sickly  smile  of  something  like 
contempt,  that  they  had  had  a  quarrel  the  night  before, 
for  which  he  was  to  blame  ;  that  he  had  left  her,  and  the 
next  morning  she  was  gone,  leaving  everything,  even  to 
her  wedding-ring,  behind  her,  except  the  clothes  she 
Avore ;  that  he  had  done  all  he  could  to  find  her,  but 
had  been  utterly  foiled.     More  he  could  not  say. 

The  next  afterroon,  he  souglit  an  interview  with  the 
curate  in  his  study,  and  told  him  everything  he  had  told 
Mr.  Drake.  The  story  seemed  to  explain  a  good  deal 
more  than  it  did,  leaving  the  curate  with  the  conviction 
that  the  disclosure  of  this  former  relation  had  caused  the 
quarrel  between  him  and  his  Avife,  and  more  doubtful 
than  ever  as  to  Juliet's  having  committed  suicide. 


CHAPTER  LL 


THE    NEW    OLD     HOUSE. 


(MCi^T  was  a  lovely  moonlit  midnight  when  lliey 


set  out,  the  four  of  them,  to  walk  from  the 
gate  across  the  park  to  the  Old  House. 
Like  shadows  they  flitted  over  the  green 
sward,  all  silent  as  shadows.  Scarcely  a 
word  was  spoken  as  they  went,  and  the 
stray  syllable  now  and  then,  was  uttered  softly  as  in  the 
presence  of  the  dead.  Suddenly  but  gently  opened 
in  Juliet's  mind  a  sense  of  the  wonder  of  life. 
The  moon,  having  laboured  through  a  heap  of  cloud 
into  a  lake  of  blue,  seemed  to  watch  her  with  curious 
interest  as  she  toiled  over  the  level  sward.  The  air 
now  and  then  made  a  soundless  sigh  about  her  head, 
like  a  waft  of  wings  invisible.  The  heavenly  distances 
seemed  to  have  come  down  and  closed  her  softly  m. 
All  at  once,  as  if  waked  from  an  eternity  of  unconscious- 
ness, she  found  herself,  by  no  will  of  her  own,  with  no 
power  to  say  nay,  present  to  herself— a  target  for  sorrow 
to  shoot  at,  a  tree  for  the  joy-birds  to  light  upon  and  de- 
part—a woman,  scorned  of  the  man  she  loved,  bearing 
within  her  another  life,  which  by  no  will  of  its  own,  and 
with  no  power  to  say  nay,  must  soon  become  aware  of 
its  own  joys  and  sorrows,  and  have  no  cause  to  bless 


4S8  PAUL  I^ADEK. 

her  for  her  share  in  its  being.  Was  there  no  one  to 
answer  for  it  ?  Surely  there  must  be  a  heart-hfe  some- 
where in  the  universe,  to  whose  will  the  unselfwilled  life 
could  refer  for  the  justification  of  its  existence,  for  its 
motive,  for  the  idea  of  it  that  should  make  it  seem  right 
to  itself — to  whom  it  could  cry  to  have  its  divergence 
from  that  idea  rectified  !  Was  she  not  now,  she  thought, 
upon  her  silent  way  to  her  own  death-bed,  walking,  walk- 
ing, the  phantom  of  herself,  in  her  own  funeral  ?  Wliat 
if,  when  the  bitterness  of  death  was  past,  and  her  child 
was  waking  in  this  world,  she  should  be  waking  in  another, 
to  a  new  life,  inevitable  as  the  former — another,  yet  the 
same  ?  We  know  not  whence  we  came — why  may  we  not 
be  going  whither  we  know  not  ?  We  did  not  know  Ave 
were  coming  here,  why  may  we  not  be  going  there  with- 
out knowing  it — this  much  more  open-eyed,  more  aware, 
that  we  know  we  do  not  know  ?  That  terrible  morning, 
she  had  come  this  way,  rushing  swiftly  to  her  death  :  she 
was  caught  and  dragged  back  from  Hades,  to  be  there- 
after— now,  driven  slowly  towards  it,  like  an  ox  to  the 
slaughter !  She  could  not  avoid  her  doom — she  must 
encounter  that  which  lay  before  her.  That  she  shrunk 
from  it  with  fainting  terror  was  nothing  ;  on  she  must  go  ! 
What  an  iron  net,  what  a  combination  of  all  chains  and 
manacles  and  fetters  and  iron-masks  and  cages  and 
prisons  was  this  existence — at  least  to  a  woman,  on  whom 
was  laid  the  burden  of  the  generations  to  follow  !  In  the 
lore  of  centuries  was  there  no  spell  whereby  to  be  rid 
of  it?  no  dark  saying  that  taught  how  to  make  sure 
death  should  be  death,  and  not  a  fresh  waking  ?  That 
the  future  is  unknown,  assures  only  danger  !  New  cir- 
cumstances have  seldom  to  the  old  heart  proved  better 
than  the  new  piece  of  cloth  to  the  old  garment. 

Thus  meditated  Juliet.  She  was  beginning  to  learn 
that,  until  we  get  to  the  heart  of  life,  its  outsides  will  be 
for  ever  fretting  us  ;  that  amongst  the  mere  garments  of 
life,  we  can  never  be  at  home.  She  was  hard  to  teach, 
but  God's  circumstance  had  found  her. 

"When  they  came  near  the  brow  of  the  hollow,  Dorothy 


THE  NFAV  OLD  HOUSE.  489 

ran  on  before,  to  see  that  all  was  safe.  Lisbeth  was  of 
course  the  only  one  in  the  house.  The  descent  was 
to  Juliet  like  the  going  down  to  the  gates  of  Death. 

i'olwarlh,  who  had  been  walking  behind  with  Ruth, 
stepped  to  her  side  the  moment  Dorothy  left  her.  Look- 
ing up  in  her  face,  with  the  moonlight  full  upon  his  large 
features,  he  said, 

"  I  have  been  feeling  all  the  way,  ma'am,  as  if  anotlicr 
was  walking  beside  us— the  same  who  said,  '  I  am  with 
you  alway  even  to  the  end  of  the  world.'  He  could  not 
have  meant  that  only  for  the  few  that  were  so  soon  to 
follow  him  home ;  he  must  have  meant  it  for  those  also 
who  should  believe  by  their  word.  Becoming  disciples, 
all  promises  the  Mastei"  made  to  his  disciples  are  theirs." 

"  It  matters  little  for  poor  me,"  answered  Juliet  with  a 
sigh.     "You  know  I  do  not  believe  in  him." 

"  But  I  believe  in  him,"  answered  Polwarth,  "  and 
Ruth  believes  in  him,  and  so  does  Miss  Drake ;  and  if 
he  be  with  us,  he  cannot  be  far  from  you." 

With  that  he  stepped  back  to  Ruth's  side,  and  said  no 
more. 

Dorothy  opened  the  door  cjuickly,  the  moment  their 
feet  were  on  the  steps  ;  they  entered  quickly,  and  she 
closed  it  behind  them  at  once,  fearful  of  some  eye  in  the 
night.  How  difterent  was  the  house  from  that  which 
Juliet  had  left !  The  hall  was  lighted  with  a  soft  lamp, 
showing  dull  warm  colours  on  walls  and  floor.  The  dining- 
room  door  stood  open ;  a  wood-fire  was  roaring  on  the 
hearth,  and  candles  were  burning  on  a  snowy  table 
spread  for  a  meal.  Dorothy  had  a  chamber-candle  in  her 
hand.  She  showed  the  Polwarths  into  the  dining-room, 
then  turning  to  Juliet,  said, 

"I  will  take  you  to  your  room,  dear." 

"  I  have  prepared  your  old  quarters  for  you,"  she  said, 
as  they  went  up  the  stair. 

With  the  words  there  rushed  upon  Juliet  such  a 
memory  of  mingled  dreariness  and  terror,  that  she  could 
not  reply. 

"You  know  it  will  be  safest,"  added  Dorothy,  and  as 


490  PAUL  FABER. 

she  spoke,  set  tlie  candle  on  a  table  at  the  top  of  the 
stair. 

They  went  along  the  passage,  and  she  opened  the 
door  of  the  closet.     All  was  dark. 

She  opened  the  door  in  the  closet,  and  Juliet  started 
back  with  amazement.  It  was  the  loveliest  room  !  and 
—like  a  marvel  in  a  fairy-tale — the  great  round  moon 
was  shining  gloriously,  first  through  the  upper  branches 
of  a  large  yew,  and  then  through  an  oriel  window,  filled 
with  lozenges  of  soft  greenish  glass,  through  which  fell  a 
lovely  picture  on  the  floor  in  light  and  shadow  and 
something  that  was  neither  or  both.  Juliet  turned  in 
delight,  threw  her  arms  round  Dorothy,  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  thought  I  was  going  into  a  dungeon,"  she  said, 
"  and  it  is  a  room  for  a  princess  !" 

"  I  sometimes  almost  believe,  Juliet,"  returned  Dorothy, 
"  that  God  will  give  us  a  great  surprise  one  day." 

Juliet  was  tired,  and  did  not  want  to  hear  about  God. 
If  Dorothy  had  done  all  this,  she  thought,  for  the  sake 
of  reading  her  a  goody  lesson,  it  spoiled  it  all.  She  did 
not  understand  the  love  that  gives  beyond  the  gift,  that 
mantles  over  the  cup  and  spills  the  wine  into  the  spaces 
of  eternal  hope.  The  room  was  so  delicious  that  she 
begged  to  be  excused  from  going  down  to  supper. 
Dorothy  suggested  it  would  not  be  gracious  to  her 
friends.  Much  as  she  respected,  and  indeed  loved 
them,  Juliet  resented  the  word  friends,  but  yielded. 

The  little  two  would  themselves  rather  have  gone 
home — it  was  so  late,  but  stayed,  fearing  to  disappoint 
Dorothy.  If  they  did  run  a  risk  by  doing  so,  it  was  for 
a  good  reason — therefore  of  no  great  consequence. 

"  How  your  good  father  will  delight  to  watch  you  here 
sometimes.  Miss  Drake,"  said  Polwarth,  "  if  those  who  are 
gone  are  permitted  to  see,  walking  themselves  unseen." 

Juliet  shuddered.  Dorothy's  father  not  two  months 
gone,  and  the  dreadful  little  man  to  talk  to  her  like  that ! 

"  Do  you  then  think,"  said  Dorothy,  "  tliat  the  dead 
only  seem  to  have  gone  from  us  ?"  and  her  eyes  looked 
like  store-houses  of  holy  questions. 


HIE  NEW  OLD  HOUSE.  491 

''  I  know  so  little,"  he  answered,  "  that  I  dare  hardly 
say  I  think  anything.  But  if,  as  our  Lord  implies,  there 
be  no  such  thing  as  that  which  the  change  appears  to 
us — nothing  like  that  we  are  thinking  of  when  we  call  it 
death — may  it  not  be  that,  obstinate  as  is  the  appear- 
ance of  separation,  there  is,  notwithstanding,  none  of  it? 
— I  don't  care,  mind  :  his  will  is,  and  that  is  everything. 
But  there  can  be  no  harm,  where  I  do  not  know  his  M'ill, 
in  venturing  a  may  be.  I  am  sure  he  likes  his  little  ones 
to  tell  their  fancies  in  the  dimmits  about  the  nursery 
fire.  Our  souls  yearning  after  light  of  any  sort  must  be 
a  pleasure  to  him  to  watch. — But  on  the  other  hand,  to 
resume  the  subject,  it  may  be  that,  as  it  is  good  for  us  to 
miss  them  in  the  body  that  we  may  the  better  find  them 
in  the  spirit,  so  it  may  be  good  for  tliem  also  to  miss  our 
bodies  that  they  may  find  our  spirits." 

"  But,"  suggested  Ruth,  "they  had  that  kind  of  dis- 
cipline while  yet  on  earth,  in  the  death  of  those  who 
Avent  before  them  ;  and  so  another  sort  might  be  better  for 
them  now.  Might  it  not  be  more  of  a  discipline  for  them 
to  see,  in  those  left  behind,  how  they  themselves,  from  lack 
of  faith,  went  groping  about  in  the  dark,  while  crowds 
all  about  them  knew  perfectly  what  they  could  not  bring 
themselves  to  believe  ?" 

"It  might,  Ruth,  it  might;  nor  do  I  think  anything  to 
the  contrary.  Or  it  might  be  given  to  some  and  not  to 
others,  just  as  it  was  good  for  them.  It  maybe  that  some 
can  see  some,  or  can  see  them  sometimes,  and  watch  their 
ways  in  partial  glimpses  of  revelation.  Who  knows  who 
may  be  about  the  house  ^vhen  all  its  mortals  are  dead 
for  the  night,  and  the  last  of  the  fires  are  burning 
unheeded  !  There  are  so  many  hours  of  both  day  and 
night — in  most  houses — in  which  those  in  and  those  out 
of  the  body  need  never  cross  each  others'  paths  !  And 
there  are  tales,  legends,  reports,  many  mere  fiction 
doubtless,  but  some  possibly  of  a  different  character, 
which  represent  this  and  that  doer  of  evil  as  compelled, 
either  by  the  law  of  his  or  her  own  troubled  being,  or  by 
some  law  external  thereto,  ever,  or  at  fixed  intervals,  to 


492  PAUL  FABER. 

liaunt  the  mouldering  scenes  of  their  past,  and  ever 
dream  horribly  afresh  the  deeds  done  in  the  body.  These, 
however,  tend  to  no  proof  of  what  we  have  been  speaking 
about,  for  such  '  extravagant  and  erring  spirit'  does  not 
haunt  the  living  from  love,  but  the  dead  from  suffering. 
In  this  life,  however,  few  of  us  come  really  near  to  each 
other  in  the  genuine  simplicity  of  love,  and  that  may  be 
the  reason  why  the  credible  stories  of  love  meeting  love 
across  the  strange  difference  are  so  few.  It  is  a  wonder- 
ful touch,  I  always  think,  in  the  play  of  Hamlet,  that, 
while  the  prince  gazes  on  the  spirit  of  his  father,  noting 
every  expression  and  gesture — even  his  dress,  as  he 
passes  through  his  late  wife's  chamber,  Gertrude,  less  un- 
faithful as  widow  than  as  wife,  not  only  sees  nothing, 
but  b}'  no  sigh  or  hint,  no  sense  in  the  air,  no  beat  of 
her  own  heart,  no  creep  even  of  her  own  flesh,  divines 
his  presence — is  not  only  certain  that  she  sees  nothing, 
but  that  she  sees  all  there  is.  She  is  the  dead,  not  her 
husband.  To  the  dead  all  are  dead.  The  eternal  life 
makes  manifest  both  life  and  death." 

"Please,  Mr.  Polwarth,"  said  Juliet,  " remember  it  is 
the  middle  of  the  night.  No  doubt  it  is  just  the  suitable 
time,  but  I  would  rather  not  make  one  in  an  orgy  of 
horrors.     We  have  all  to  be  alone  presently." 

She  hated  to  hear  about  death,  and  the  grandest  of 
words,  Eternal  Life,  which  to  most  means  nothing  but 
prolonged  existence,  meant  to  her  just  death.  If  she 
had  stolen  a  magic  spell  for  avoiding  it,  she  could  not 
have  shrunk  more  from  any  reference  to  tlie  one  thing 
commonest  and  most  inevitable.  Often  as  she  tried  to 
imagine  the  reflection  of  her  own  death  in  the  mind  of 
her  Paul,  the  mere  mention  of  the  ugly  thing  seemed  to 
lier  ill-mannered,  almost  indecent. 

"  The  IvOrd  is  awake  all  night,"  said  Polwarth,  rising, 
"and  therefore  the  night  is  holy  as  the  day. — Ruth, 
we  should  be  rather  frightened  to  walk  home  under  that 
awful  sky,  if  we  thought  the  Lord  was  not  with  us." 

"  The  night  is  fine  enough,"  said  Juliet. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ruth,  replying  to  her  uncle,  not  to  Juliet; 


THE  NFAV  OLD  HOUSE.  493 

*'  but  even  if  he  were  asleep — you  remember  how  he  slept 
once,  and  yet  reproached  his  disciples  witli  their  fear  and 
doubt." 

"  I  do  ;  but  in  the  little  faith  with  which  he  reproached 
them,  he  referred,  not  to  himself,  but  to  his  Father. 
Whether  he  slept  or  waked  it  was  all  one  :  the  Son  may 
sleep,  for  the  Father  never  sleeps." 

They  stood  beside  each  other,  taking  their  leave  : 
what  little  objects  they  were,  opposite  the  two  graceful 
ladies,  who  also  stood  beside  each  other,  pleasant  to 
look  upon.  Sorrow  and  suffering,  lack  and  weakness, 
though  plain  to  see  upon  them  both,  had  not  yet  greatly 
dimmed  their  beauty.  The  faces  of  the  dwarfs,  on  the 
other  hand,  were  marked  and  lined  witli  suffering ;  but 
the  suffering  was  dominated  by  peace  and  strength. 
There  was  no  sorrow  there,  little  lack,  no  weakness 
or  fear,  and  a  great  hope.  They  never  spent  any  time 
in  pitying  themselves  ;  the  trouble  that  alone  ever  clouded 
their  sky,  was  the  suffering  of  others.  Even  for  this  they 
had  comfort — their  constant  ready  help  consoled  both 
the  sufferer  and  themselves. 

"  Will  you  come  and  see  me,  if  you  die  first,  uncle  ?" 
said  Ruth,  as  they  walked  home  together  in  the  moon- 
light.     "  You  will  think  how  lonely  I  am  without  you." 

"If  it  be  within  the  law  of  things,  if  I  be  at  liberty, 
and  the  thing  seem  good  for  you,  my  Ruth,  you  may 
be  sure  I  will  come  to  you.  But  of  one  thing  I  am 
pretty  certain,  that  such  visions  do  not  appear  when 
people  are  looking  for  them.  You  must  not  go  staring 
into  the  dark  trying  to  see  me.  Do  your  work,  pray  your 
prayers,  and  be  sure  I  love  you  :  if  I  am  to  come,  I  will 
come.  It  may  be  in  the  hot  noon  or  in  the  dark  night ; 
it  may  be  with  no  sight  and  no  sound,  yet  a  knowledge 
of  presence  ;  or  I  may  be  watching  you,  helping  you 
perhaps,  and  you  never  know  it  mitil  I  come  to  fetch  you 
at  the  last, — if  I  may.  You  have  been  daughter  and 
sister,  and  mother  to  me,  my  Ruth.  You  have  been  my 
one  woman  in  the  world      God,  I  tinnk  sometimes,  has 


494  PAUL  FABER. 

planted  about  you  and  me,  my  child,  a  cactus-hedge  of 
ugliness,  that  we  might  be  so  near  and  so  lonely  as  to 
learn  love  as  few  have  learned  it  in  this  world — love  with- 
out fear,  or  doubt,  or  pain,  or  anxiety — with  constant 
satisfaction  in  presence,  and  calm  content  in  absence. 
Of  the  last,  however,  I  cannot  boast  much,  seeing  we 
have  not  been  parted  a  day  for — how  many  years  is 
it,  Ruth  ?— Ah,  Rutli  !  a  bliss  beyond  speech  is  waiting 
us  in  the  presence  of  the  Master,  where,  seeing  him  as 
he  is,  we  shall  grow  like  him,  and  be  no  more  either 
dwarfed  or  sickly.  But  you  will  have  the  same  face, 
Ruth,  else  I  should  be  for  ever  missing  something." 

"  But  you  do  not  think  we  shall  be  perfect  all  at 
once  ?" 

"  No,  not  all  at  once ;  I  cannot  believe  that :  God 
takes  time  to  what  he  does — the  doing  of  it  is  itself 
good.  It  would  be  a  sight  for  heavenly  eyes  to  see  you, 
like  a  bent  and  broken  and  withered  lily,  straightening 
and  lengthening  your  stalk,  and  flushing  into  beauty. 
—But  fancy  what  it  will  be  to  see  at  length  to  the  very 
heart  of  the  person  you  love,  and  love  him  perfectly — 
all  that  yoji  can  love  Jthn  !  Every  love  will  then  be  a 
separate  heaven,  and  all  the  heavens  will  blend  in  one 
perfect  heaven — the  love  of  God — the  All  in  all." 

They  were  walking  like  children,  hand  in  hand  :  Ruth 
pressed  that  of  her  uncle,  for  she  could  not  answer  in 
words. 

Even  to  Dorothy  their  talk  would  have  been  vague, 
vague  from  the  intervening  mist  of  her  own  atmosphere. 
To  tliem  it  was  vague  only  from  the  wide  stretch  of  its 
horizon,  the  distance  of  its  zenith.  There  is  all  dif- 
ference between  the  vagueness  belonging  to  an  imperfect 
sight,  and  the  vagueness  belonging  to  the  distance  of  the 
outlook.  But  to  walk  on  up  the  hill  of  duty,  is  the  only 
way  out  of  the  one  into  the  other.  I  think  some  only 
know  they  are  labouring,  hardly  know  they  are  climbing, 
till  they  find  themselves  near  the  top. 


CHAPTER   LII. 


THE    LEVEL    OF    THE    LYTHE. 


OROTHY'S  faith  in  PolwarLh  liad  in  tlie 
meantime  largely  increased.  She  had  not 
only  come  to  trust  him  thoroughly,  but 
gained  much  strength  from  the  confidence. 
As  soon  as  she  had  taken  Juliet  her  break- 
fast the  next  morning,  she  went  to  meet 
him  in  the  park,  for  so  they  had  arranged  the  night 
before. 

She  had  before  acquainted  him  with  the  promise  Juliet 
had  exacted  of  her,  that  she  would  call  her  husband  the 
moment  she  seemed  in  danger — a  possibility  which  Juliet 
regarded  as  a  certainty  ;  and  had  begged  him  to  think 
how  they  could  contrive  to  have  Faber  within  call.  He 
had  now  a  plan  to  propose  with  this  object  in  view,  but 
began,  apparently,  at  a  distance  from  it. 

"  You  know,  Miss  Drake,"  he  said,  "  that  I  am  well 
acquainted  with  every  yard  of  this  ground.  Had  your 
honoured  father  asked  me  whether  the  Old  House  was 
desirable  for  a  residence,  I  should  have  expressed  consid- 
erable doubt.  But  there  is  one  thing  which  would 
greatly  improve  it — would  indeed,  I  hope,  entirely  re- 
move my  objection  to  it.  Many  years  ago  I  noted  the 
state  of  the  stone  steps  leading  up  to  the  door :  they 


496  PAUL  FABER. 

were  much  and  diversely  out  of  the  level ;  and  the  cause 
was  evident  with  \\\t  first  great  rain  :  the  lake  filled  the 
whole  garden — to  the  top  of  the  second  step.  Now  this, 
if  it  take  place  only  once  a  year,  must  of  course  cause 
damp  in  the  house.  But  I  think  there  is  more  than  that 
will  account  for.  I  have  been  in  the  cellars  repeatedly, 
both  before  and  since  your  father  bought  it,  and  always 
found  them  too  damp.  The  cause  of  it,  I  think,  is,  that 
the  foundations  are  as  low  as  the  ordinary  level  of  the 
water  in  the  pond,  and  tlie  ground,  at  that  depth,  is  of 
large  gravel :  it  seems  to  me  that  the  water  gets  through 
to  the  house.  I  should  propose,  therefore,  that  from  the 
bank  of  the  Lythe  a  tunnel  be  commenced,  rising  at  a 
gentle  incline  until  it  pierces  the  basin  of  the  lake.  The 
ground  is  your  own  to  the  river,  I  believe  ?" 

"  It  is,"  answered  Dorothy.  "  But  I  should  be  sorry 
to  empty  the  lake  altogether." 

"  My  scheme,"  returned  Polwarth,  "  includes  a  strong 
sluice,  by  which  you  could  keep  the  water  at  what  height 
you  pleased,  and  at  any  moment  send  it  into  the  river. 
The  only  danger  would  be  of  cutting  through  the  springs ; 
and  I  fancy  they  are  less  likely  to  be  on  the  side  next 
the  river  where  the  ground  is  softer,  else  they  would  pro- 
bably have  found  their  way  directly  into  it,  instead  of  first 
hollowing  out  the  pond." 

"  Would  it  be  a  difticult  thing  to  do  ?"  asked  Dorothy. 

"  I  think  not,"  answered  Polwarth.  "  But  with  your 
permission  I  will  get  a  friend  of  mine,  an  engineer,  to  look 
into  it." 

_"  I  leave  it  in  your  hands,"  said  Dorothy.  "  —  Do  you 
think  we  shall  find  anything  at  the  bottom  ?" 

"  Who  can  tell  ?  But  we  do  not  know  how  near  the 
bottom  the  tunnel  may  bring  us  ;  there  may  be  fathoms  of 
mud  below  the  level  of  the  river-bed. — One  thing,  thank 
God,  we  shall  not  find  there  !" 

The  same  week  all  was  arranged  with  the  engineer. 
By  a  certain  day  his  men  were  to  be  at  work  on  the 
tunnel. 


THE  LEVEL  OF  THE  LYTLIE.  497 

For  some  time  now,  tilings  had  been  going  on 
much  the  same  with  all  in  whom  my  narrative  is 
interested.  There  come  lulls  in  every  process,  whether  of 
growth  or  of  tempest,  whether  of  creation  or  destruc- 
tion, and  those  lulls,  coming  as  they  do  in  the  midst  of 
force,  are  precious  in  their  influence — because  they 
are  only  lulls,  and  the  forces  are  still  at  work.  All 
the  time  the  volcano  is  quiet,  something  is  going  on 
below.  From  the  first  moment  of  exhaustion,  the  next 
outbreak  is  preparing.  To  be  faint  is  to  begin  to  gather, 
as  well  as  to  cease  to  expend. 

Faber  had  been  growing  better.  He  sat  more  erect 
on  his  horse  ;  his  eye  was  keener,  his  voice  more  kindly, 
though  hardly  less  sad,  and  his  step  was  firmer.  His 
love  to  the  child,  and  her  delight  in  his  attentions,  were 
slowly  leading  him  back  to  life.  Every  day,  if  but  for 
a  moment,  he  contrived  to  see  her,  and  the  Wingfolds 
took  care  to  remove  every  obstacle  from  the  way  of  their 
meeting.  Little  they  thought  Avhy  Dorothy  let  them 
keep  the  child  so  long.  As  little  did  Dorothy  know  that 
what  she  yielded  for  the  sake  of  the  wife,  they  desired 
for  the  sake  of  the  husband. 

At  length  one  morning  came  a  break  :  Faber  received 
a  note  from  the  gate-keeper,  informing  him  that  Miss 
Drake  was  having  the  pond  at  the  foot  of  her  garden 
emptied  into  the  Lythe  by  means  of  a  tunnel,  the  construc- 
tion of  which  was  already  completed.  They  were  now 
boring  for  a  small  charge  of  gunpowder  expected  to 
liberate  the  water.  The  process  of  emptying  would  pro- 
bably be  rapid,  and  he  had  taken  the  liberty  of  informing 
Mr.  Faber,  thinking  he  might  choose  to  be  present.  No 
one  but  the  persons  employed  would  be  allowed  to  enter 
the  grounds. 

This  news  gave  him  a  greater  shock  than  he  could 
have  believed  possible.  He  thought  he  had  "supped 
full  with  horrors  !"  At  once  he  arranged  with  his  assistant 
for  being  absent  the  whole  day  ;  and  rode  out,  followed 
by  his  groom.     At  the  gate  Polwarth  joined  him,  and 

K  K 


498  rAUL  FABER. 

walked  beside  him  to  the  Old  House,  where  his  groom, 
he  said,  could  put  up  the  horses.  That  done,  he  accom- 
panied him  to  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel,  and  there  left 
him. 

Faber  sat  down  on  the  stump  of  a  felled  tree,  threw 
a  big  cloak,  which  he  had  brought  across  the  pommel  of 
his  saddle,  over  his  knees,  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  Before  him  the  river  ran  swiftly  towards  the 
level  country,  making  a  noise  of  watery  haste ;  also  the 
wind  was  in  the  woods,  with  the  noises  of  branches  and 
leaves,  but  the  only  sounds  he  heard  were  the  blows  of 
the  hammer  on  the  boring-chisel,  coming  dull,  and  as  if 
from  afar,  out  of  the  depths  of  the  earth.  What  a  strange, 
awful  significance  they  had  to  the  heart  of  Faber  !  But 
the  end  v/as  delayed  hour  after  hour ;  and  there  he  still 
sat,  now  and  then  at  a  louder  noise  than  usual  lifting  up 
a  white  face,  and  staring  towards  the  mouth  of  tlie 
tunnel.  At  the  explosion  the  Avater  would  probably  rush 
in  a  torrent  from  the  pit,  and  in  half  an  hour,  perhaps, 
the  pond  would  be  empty.  But  Polwarth  had  taken  good 
care  there  should  be  no  explosion  that  day.  Ever  again 
came  the  blow  of  iron  upon  iron,  and  the  boring  liad 
begun  afresh. 

Into  her  lovely  chamber  Dorothy  had  carried  to  Juliet 
the  glad  tidings  that  her  husband  -was  witinn  a  few 
hundred  yards  of  the  house,  and  that  she  miglit  trust 
Mr.  Polwarth  to  keep  him  there  until  all  danger  was 
over. 

Juliet  now  manifested  far  more  courage  than  she  had 
given  reason  to  expect.  It  seemed  as  if  her  husband's 
nearness  gave  her  strength  to  do  without  his  presence. 

At  length  the  child,  a  lovely  boy,  lay  asleep  in  Dorothy's 
arms.  The  lovelier  mother  also  slept.  Polwarth  was  on 
his  way  to  stop  the  work,  and  let  the  doctor  know  that 
its  completion  must  be  postponed  for  a  i<i\\  days,  when 
he  heard  the  voice  of  Lisbeth  behind  him,  calling  as 
she  ran.     He  turned  and  met  her,  then  turned  again 


THE  LEVEL  OF  THE  LYTIIE.  499 

and  ran,  as  fast  as  his  Utile  legs  could  cany  him,  to  the 
doctor. 

"  Mr.  Faber,"  he  cried,  "  there  is  a  lady  up  there  at  the 
liouse,  a  friend  of  Miss  Drake's,  taken  suddenly  ill.  You 
are  wanted  as  quickly  as  possible." 

Faber  answered  not  a  vrord,  but  went  with  hasty  strides 
up  the  bank,  and  ran  to  the  house.  Polwarth  followed 
as  fast  as  he  could,  panting  and  wheezing.  Lisbeth 
received  the  doctor  at  the  door. 

"  Tell  my  man  to  saddle  my  horse,  and  be  at  the  back 
door  immediately,"  he  said  to  her. 

Polwarth  followed  him  up  the  stair  to  the  landing, 
where  Dorothy  received  Faber,  and  led  him  to  Juliet's 
room.  The  dwarf  seated  himself  on  the  top  of  the  stair, 
almost  within  sight  of  the  door. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 


MY     lady's     chamber. 

I^^^^^HEN  Faber  entered,  a  dim,  rosy  light  from 
drawn  window-curtains  filled   the  air .   he 
could  see  little  more  than  his  way  to  the 
bed.     Dorothy  was  in  terror  lest  the  dis- 
covery he  must    presently   make,   should 
unnerve  the  husband  for  what  might  be  re- 
quired of  the  doctor.     But  Juliet  kept  her  face  turned 
aside,  and  a  word  from  the  nurse  let  him  know  at  once 
what  was  necessary.     He  turned  to  Dorothy,  and  said, 

"  I  must  send  my  man  home  to  fetch  me  something ;" 
men  to  the  nurse,  and  said,  "Go  on  as  you  are  doing  ;" 
then  once  more  to  Dorothy,  saying,  "Come  with  me, 
Miss  Drake  :  I  want  writing  things." 

He  led  the  way  from  the  room,  and  Dorothy  followed. 
But  scarcely  were  they  in  the  passage,  when  the  little 
man  rose  and  met  them.  Faber  would  have  pushed  past 
him,  annoyed,  but  Polwarth  held  out  a  little  phial  to  him. 
"  Perhaps  that  is  what  you  want,  sir,"  he  said. 
The  doctor  caught  it  hastily,  almost  angrily,  from  his 
hand,  looked  at  it,  uncorked  it,  and  put  it  to  his  nose. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  "  this  is  just  what  I  wanted," 
and  returned  instantly  to  the  chamber. 

The  little  man  resumed  his  patient  seat  on  the  side, 


MY  LADY'S  CHAMBER.  501 

breathing  heavily.  Ten  minutes  of  utter  silence  followed. 
Then  Dorothy  passed  him  with  a  note  in  her  hand,  and 
hurried  down  the  stair.  The  next  instant  Polwarth  heard 
the  sound  of  Niger's  hoofs  tearing  up  the  slope  behind 
the  house. 

"  I  have  got  some  more  medicines  here,  Miss  Drake," 
he  said,  when  she  reappeared  on  the  stair. 

As  he  spoke  he  brought  out  phial  after  phial,  as  if  his 
pockets  widened  out  below  into  the  mysterious  recesses  of 
the  earth  to  which  as  a  gnome  he  belonged.  Dorothy, 
however,  told  him  it  was  not  a  medicine  the  docter  wanted 
now,  but  something  else,  she  did  not  know  what.  Her 
face  was  dreadfully  white,  but  as  calm  as  an  ice-field. 
She  went  back  into  the  room,  and  Polwarth  sat  down 
again. 

Not  more  than  twenty  minutes  had  passed  when  he 
heard  again  the  soft  thunder  of  Niger's  hoofs  upon  the 
sward ;  and  in  a  minute  more  up  came  Lisbeth,  carrying 
a  little  morocco  case,  which  she  left  at  the  door  of  the 
room. 

Then  an  hour  passed,  during  which  he  heard  nothing. 
He  sat  motionless,  and  his  troubled  lungs  grew  quiet. 

Suddenly  he  heard  Dorothy's  step  behind  him,  and 
rose. 

"  You  had  better  come  down  stairs  with  me,"  she  said, 
in  a  voice  he  scarcely  knew,  and  her  face  looked  almost 
as  if  she  had  herself  passed  through  a  terrible  illness. 

"  How  is  the  poor  lady  ?"  he  asked. 

"  The  immediate  danger  is  over,  the  doctor  says,  but 
he  seems  in  great  doubt.  He  has  sent  me  away.  Come 
with  me  :  I  want  you  to  have  a  glass  of  wine." 

"  Has  he  recognized  her?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  haven't  seen  any  sign  of  it.  But 
the  room  is  dark. — We  can  talk  better  below." 

"  I  am  in  want  of  nothing,  my  dear  lady,"  said  Pol- 
warth. "  1  should  much  prefer  staying  here — if  you  will 
permit  me.  There  is  no  knowing  when  I  might  be  of 
service.     I  am  far  from  unused  to  sick  chambers." 


502  PAUL  FABER. 

"  Do  as  you  please,  Mr.  Polwaith,"  said  Dorothy, 
and  going  down  the  stair,  went  into  the  garden. 

Once  more  Polwarth  resumed  his  seat. 

There  came  the  noise  of  a  heavy  fall,  which  shook  him 
Vv'hcre  he  sat.  He  started  up,  went  to  the  door  of  the 
chamber,  listened  a  moment,  heard  a  hurried  step  and 
tlie  sweeping  of  garments,  and  making  no  more  scruple, 
opened  it  and  looked  in. 

All  was  silent,  and  the  room  was  so  dark  he  could  see 
nothing.  Presently,  however,  he  descried,  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  a  prostrate  figure  that  could  only  be  the 
doctor,  for  plainly  it  was  the  nurse  on  her  knees  by  him. 
He  glanced  towards  the  bed.     There  all  was  still. 

"She  is  gone!"  he  thought  with  himself;  "and  the 
poor  fellow  has  discovered  who  slie  was  !" 

He  went  in. 

"  Have  you  no  brandy?"  he  said  to  the  nurse. 

'■  On  that  table,"  she  answered. 

"  Lay  his  head  clown,  and  fetch  it," 

Notwithstanding  his  appearance,  the  nurse  obeyed  : 
she  knew  the  doctor  required  brandy,  but  had  lost  her 
presence  of  mind. 

Polwarth  took  his  hand.  The  pulse  had  vanished — 
and  no  wonder !  Once  more,  utterly  careless  of  him- 
self, had  the  healer  drained  his  own  life-spring  to  supply 
that  of  his  patient— knowing  as  litde  now  what  that  patient 
was  to  him  as  he  knew  then  what  she  was  going  to  be. 
A  thrill  had  indeed  shot  to  his  heart  at  the  touch  of  her 
hand,  scarcely  alive  as  it  was,  when  first  he  felt  her  pulse  ; 
what  he  saw  of  her  averted  face  through  the  folded 
shadows  of  pillows  and  curtains  both  of  window  and  bed, 
woke  wild  suggestions ;  as  he  bared  her  arm,  he  almost  gave 
a  cry  :  it  was  fortunate  that  there  was  not  light  enough  to 
show  the  scar  of  his  own  lancet;  but,  always  at  any 
critical  moment  self-possessed  to  coldness,  he  schooled 
himself  now  with  sternest  severity.  He  insisted  to  him- 
self that  he  was  in  mortal  danger  of  being  fooled  by  his 
imagination — that  a  certain  indelible  imprint  on  his  brain 


I\IV  LADY'S  CHAMBER.  503 

had  begun  to  phosphoresce.  If  he  did  not  banish  the 
fiLincies  crowding  to  overwhehri  him,  his  patient's  Hfe,  and 
probaljly  his  own  reason  as  well,  would  be  the  penalty. 
Therefore,  with  will  obstinately  strained,  he  kept  his  eyes 
turned  from  the  face  of  tlie  woman,  drawn  to  it  as  they 
were  even  by  the  terror  of  what  his  fancy  might  Uiere 
show  him,  and  held  to  his  duty  in  spite  of  growing  agony. 
His  brain,  he  said  to  himself,  was  so  fearfully  excited, 
that  he  must  not  trust  his  senses  :  they  would  retlect 
from  within,  instead  of  transmitting  from  without.  And 
victoriously  did  he  rule,  until,  all  the  life  he  had  in  gift 
being  exhausted,  his  brain,  deserted  by  his  heart,  gave 
way,  and  when  he  turned  from  the  bed,  all  but  uncon- 
scious, he  could  only  stagger  a  pace  or  two,  and  fell  like 
one  dead. 

Polwarth  got  some  brandy  into  his  mouth  with  a  tea- 
spoon.    In  about  a  minute,  his  heart  began  to  beat. 

"  I  must  open  another  vein,"  he  murmured  as  if  in  a 
dream. 

^Vhen  he  liad  swallowed  a  third  spoonful,  he  lifted 
his  eyelids  in  a  dreary  kind  of  way,  saw  Polwarth,  and 
remembered  that  he  had  something  to  attend  to — a 
patient  at  the  moment  on  his  hands,  probably — he  could 
not  tell. 

"  Tut !  give  me  a  wine-glass  of  the  stuff,"  he  said. 

Polwarth  obeyed.  The  moment  he  swallowed  it,  he 
rose,  rubbing  his  forehead  as  if  trying  to  remember,  and 
meclianically  turned  towards  the  bed.  The  nurse,  afraid 
he  might  not  yet  know  what  he  was  about,  stepped 
between,  saying  softly, 

"  She  is  asleep,  sir,  and  breathing  quietly." 

"Thank  God  !"  he  whispered  with  a  sigh,  and  turning 
to  a  couch,  laid  himself  gently  upon  it. 

The  nurse  looked  at  Polwarth,  as  mucl)  as  to  say: 
"Who  is  to  take  the  command  now?" 

"  I  shall  be  outside,  nurse  :  call  me  if  I  can  be  useful 
to  you,"  he  replied  to  the  glance,  and  withdrew  to  his 
watch  on  the  top  of  the  stair. 


504  PAUL  FABER. 

After  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  nurse  came  out. 

"  Do  you  want  me  ?"  said  Polwarth,  rising  hastily. 

"No,  sir,"  she  answered.  "The  doctor  says  all  im- 
mediate danger  is  over,  and  he  requires  nobody  with 
him.  I  am  going  to  look  after  my  baby.  And  please, 
sir,  nobody  is  to  go  in,  for  he  says  she  must  not  be  dis- 
turbed. The  slightest  noise  might  spoil  everything :  she 
must  sleep  now  all  she  can." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Polwarth,  and  sat  down  again. 

The  day  went  on ;  the  sun  went  down  ;  the  shadows 
deepened ;  and  not  a  sound  came  from  the  room.  Again 
and  again  Dorothy  came  and  peeped  up  the  stair,but  seeing 
the  little  man  at  his  post,  like  Zacch^eus  up  the  syca- 
more, was  satisfied,  and  withdrew.  But  at  length  Pol- 
warth bethought  him  that  Ruth  would  be  anxious,  and 
rose  reluctantly.  The  same  instant  the  door  opened, 
and  Faber  appeared.  He  looked  very  pale  and  worn, 
almost  haggard. 

"  Would  you  call  Miss  Drake,"  he  said. 

Polwarth  went,  and  following  Dorothy  up  the  stair 
again,  heard  what  Faber  said. 

"  She  is  sleeping  beautifully,  but  I  dare  not  leave  her. 
I  must  sit  up  with  her  to-night.  Send  my  man  to  tell 
my  assistant  that  1  shall  not  be  home.  Could  you  let 
me  have  something  to  eat,  and  you  take  my  place  ? 
And  there  is  Polwarth  !  he  has  earned  his  dinner, 
if  any  one  has.  I  do  believe  we  owe  the  poor  lady's 
life  to  him." 

Dorothy  ran  to  give  the  message  and  her  own  orders. 
Polwarth  begged  she  would  tell  the  groom  to  say  to 
Ruth  as  he  passed  that  all  was  well ;  and  when  the  meal 
was  ready,  joined  Faber. 

It  was  speedily  over,  for  the  doctor  seemed  anxious  to 
be  again  with  his  patient.  Then  Dorothy  went  to  Pol- 
warth. Both  were  full  of  the  same  question  :  had  Faber 
recognized  his  wife  or  not  ?  Neither  had  come  to  a  certain 
conclusion.  Dorothy  thought  he  had,  but  that  he  was 
too  hard  and  proud  to  show  it ;  Polwarth  thought  he  had 


MY  LADY'S  CIIAMBEK.  505 

not,  but  had  been  powerfully  reminded  of  her.  He  had 
been  talking  strangely,  he  said,  during  their  dinner,  and 
had  drunk  a  good  deal  of  wine  in  a  hurried  way. 

Polwarth's  conclusion  was  correct :  it  was  with  an  ex- 
citement almost  insane,  and  a  pleasure  the  more  sorrow- 
ful that  he  was  aware  of  its  transientness,  a  pleasure  now 
mingling,  now  alternating  with  utter  despair,  that  Faber 
returned  to  sit  in  the  darkened  chamber,  watching  the 
woman  who  with  such  sweet  torture  reminded  him  of 
her  whom  he  had  lost.  What  a  strange,  unfathomable 
thing  is  the  pleasure  given  us  by  a  likeness  !  It  is  one  of 
the  mysteries  of  our  humanity.  Now  she  had  seemed 
more,  now  less  like  his  Juliet ;  but  all  the  time  he  could 
see  her  at  best  only  very  partially.  Ever  since  his  fall, 
his  sight  had  been  weak,  especially  in  twilight,  and  even 
when,  once  or  twice,  he  stood  over  her  as  she  slept,  and 
strained  his  eyes  to  their  utmost,  he  could  not  tell  what 
he  saw.  For,  in  the  hope  that,  by  the  time  it  did  come, 
its  way  would  have  been  prepared  by  a  host  of  foregone 
thoughts,  Dorothy  had  schemed  to  delay  as  much  as  she 
could  the  discovery  which  she  trusted  in  her  heart  must 
come  at  last ;  and  had  therefore  contrived,  not  by  drawn 
curtains  merely,  but  by  closed  Venetian  shutters  as  well, 
to  darken  the  room  greatly.  And  now  he  had  no  light 
but  a  small  lamp,  with  a  shade. 

He  had  taken  a  book  with  him,  but  it  was  little  he 
read  that  night.  At  almost  regular  intervals  he  rose  to 
see  how  his  patient  fared.  .She  was  still  floating  in  the 
twilight  shallows  of  death,  whether  softly  drifting  on  the 
ebb-tide  of  sleep,  out  into  the  open  sea,  or,  on  its  flow, 
again  up  the  river  of  life,  he  could  not  yet  tell.  Once  the 
nurse  entered  the  room  to  see  if  anything  were  wanted. 
Faber  lifted  his  head,  and  motioned  her  angrily  away, 
making  no  ghost  of  a  sound.  The  night  wore  on,  and 
still  she  slept.  In  his  sleepless  and  bloodless  brain 
strangest  thoughts  and  feelings  went  and  came.  The 
scents  of  old  roses,  the  stings  of  old  sins,  awoke  and 
vanished,  like  the  pulsing  of  fire-flies.     But  even  now  he 


5o6  PAUL  FABER. 

was  the  watcher  of  his  own  moods  ;  and  when  amongst  the 
rest  the  thought  would  come:  "What  if  this  should  ho.  my 
own  Juhet !  Do  not  time  and  place  agree  witli  the  possi- 
bility ?"  and  for  a  moment  life  seemed  as  if  it  would  burst 
into  the  very  madness  of  delight,  ever  and  again  his  com- 
mon sense  drove  him  to  conckide  that  his  imagination 
was  fooling  him.  He  dared  not  yield  to  the  intoxicating 
idea.  If  he  did,  he  would  be  hke  a  man  drinking  poison, 
A\'ell  knowing  that  every  sip,  in  itself  a  delight,  brought 
him  a  step  nearer  to  agony  and  death !  When  she 
should  wake,  and  he  let  the  light  fall  upon  her  face,  he 
knew — so  he  said  to  himself — he  k/ieza  the  likeness 
would  vanish  in  an  appalling  unlikeness,  a  mockery,  a 
scoff  of  the  whole  night  and  its  lovely  dream — in  a 
face  which,  if  beautiful  as  that  of  an  angel,  not  being 
Juliet's,  would  be  to  him  ugly,  unnatural,  a  discord  with 
the  one  music  of  his  memory.  Still  the  night  was 
chequered  with  moments  of  silvery  bliss,  in  the  indul- 
gence of  the  mere,  the  known  fancy  of  what  it  would  be 
if  it  were  she,  vanishing  ever  in  the  reviving  rebuke,  that 
he  must  nerve  himself  for  the  loss  of  that  which  the  morning 
must  dispel.  Yet,  like  one  in  a  dream,  who  knows  it  is  but 
a  dream,  and  scarce  dares  breathe  lest  he  should  break  the 
mirrored  ecstasy,  he  would  not  carry  the  lamp  to  the  bed- 
side :  no  act  of  his  should  disperse  the  airy  flicker  of  the 
lovely  doubt,  not  a  movement,  not  a  nearer  glance,  until 
stern  necessity  should  command. 

History  knows  well  the  tendency  of  things  to  repeat 
themselves.  Similar  circumstances  falling  together  must 
incline  to  the  production  of  similar  consequent  events. 

Towards  morning  Juliet  awoke  from  her  long  sleep,  but 
she  had  the  vessels  of  her  brain  too  empty  of  the  life  of 
tliis  world  to  recognize  barely  that  which  was  presented 
to  her  bodily  vision.  Over  the  march  of  two  w^orlds, 
that  of  her  imagination,  and  that  of  foct,  her  soul  hovered 
fluttering,  and  blended  the  presentments  of  the  two  in 
the  power  of  its  unity. 

The  only  thing  she  saw  was  the  face  of  her  husband, 


MY  LADY \S  CIIA MBER.  5^7 

5adly  lighted  by  the  duumed  lamp.  It  was  some  distance 
away,  near  the  middle  of  the  room  :  it  seemed  to  her 
miles  away,  yet  near  enough  to  be  addressed.  It  was 
a  more  beautiful  face  now  than  ever  before — than  even 
then  when  hrst  she  took  it  for  the  face  of  the  Son  of 
Man — more  beautiful,  and  more  like  him,  for  it  was  more 
liuman.  Thin  and  pale  with  suffering,  it  was  nowise 
feel)le,  but  the  former  self-sufficiency  had  vanished,  and 
a  still  sorrow  had  taken  its  place. 

He  sat  sunk  in  dim  thought.  A  sound  came  that 
shook  him  as  with  an  ague  fit.  Even  then  he  mastered 
his  emotion,  and  sat  still  as  a  stone.  Or  was  it  deliglit 
unmastered,  and  awe  indefinable,  that  paralyzed  him  ?  He 
dared  not  move  lest  he  should  break  the  spell.  AVere  it 
flict,  or  were  it  but  yet  further  phantom  play  of  his  senses,  it 
sliould  unfold  itself;  not  with  a  sigla  would  he  jar  the  un- 
folding, but,  ear  only,  listen  to  the  end.  In  the  utter 
stillness  of  the  room,  of  the  sleeping  house,  of  the  dark 
embracing  night,  he  lay  in  famished  w\ait  for  every  word. 

"  O  Jesus,"  said  the  voice,  as  of  one  struggling  with 
weariness,  or  one  who  speaks  her  thoughts  in  a  dream, 
imagining  she  reads  from  a  book,  a  gentle,  tired  voice  :— 
"  CJ  J  esus  !  after  all,  thou  art  there  !  They  told  me  tliou 
wast  dead,  and  gone  nowhere  !  They  said  there  never 
was  such  a  one  !  And  there  thou  art  1  O  Jesus,  what  am 
I  to  do?  Art  thou  going  to  do  anything  with  me? — I 
wish  I  were  a  leper,  or  an)'thing  that  thou  wouldst  make 
clean  !  But  how  couldst  thou,  for  I  never  quite  believed 
in  thee,  and  never  loved  thee  before  ?  And  there  was  my 
Paul  !  oh,  how  I  loved  my  Paul !  and  he  v/ouldn't  do  it. 
I  begged  and  begged  him,  for  he  was  my  husband  when 
I  was  alive — I  begged  him  to  take  me  and  make  me 
clean,  but  he  wouldn't :  he  was  too  pure  to  pardon  me. 
He  let  me  lie  in  the  dirt  !  It  was  all  right  of  him,  but 
surely,  Lord,  thou  couldst  aftbrd  to  jnty  a  poor  girl  that 
hardly  knew  what  she  was  doing.  My  heart  is  very  sore, 
and  my  w^hole  body  is  ashamed,  and  I  feel  so  stupid 
Do  help  me  if  thou  canst.     I  denied  thee,  I  know ;  but 


5o8  PAUL  FABER. 

then  I  cared  for  i^ioihing  but  my  husband  ;  and  the  denial 
of  a  silly  girl  could  not  hurt  thee,  if  indeed  thou  art  Lord 
of  all  vv-orlds ! — I  know  thou  wilt  forgive  me  for  that. 
But,  O  Christ,  please,  if  thou  canst  any  way  do  it,  make 
me  fit  for  Paul.  1'ell  him  to  beat  me  and  forgive  me. — 
O  my  Saviour,  do  not  look  at  me  so,  or  I  shall  forget 
Paul  himself,  and  die  weeping  for  joy.  Oh,  my  Lord ! 
Oh,  my  Paul  !" 

For  Paul  had  gendy  risen  from  his  chair,  and  come  one 
step  nearer — where  he  stood  looking  on  her  with  such  a 
smile  as  seldom  has  been  upon  human  face — a  smile  of  un- 
utterable sorrow,  love,  repentance,  hope.  She  gazed, 
speechless  now,  her  spirit  drinking  in  the  vision  of  that 
smile.  It  was  like  mountain  air,  like  water,  like  wine, 
like  eternal  life  !  It  was  forgiveness  and  peace  from  the 
Lord  of  all.  And  had  her  brain  been  as  clear  as  her 
heart,  could  she  have  taken  it  for  less  ?  If  the  sinner 
forgave  her,  what  did  the  Perfect? 

Paul  dared  not  go  nearer — partly  from  dread  of  the 
consequences  of  increased  emotion.  Her  lips  began  to 
move  again,  and  her  voice  to  murmur,  but  he  could  dis- 
tinguish only  a  word  here  and  there.  Slowly  the  eyelids 
fell  over  the  great  dark  eyes,  the  words  dissolved  into 
syllables,  the  sounds  ceased  to  be  words  at  all,  and 
vanished  :  her  soul  had  slipped  away  into  some  silent 
dream. 

Then  at  length  he  approached  on  tiptoe.     For  a  few 
moments  lie  stood  and  gazed  on  the  sleeping  counten- 
ance— then  dropped  on  his  knees,  and  cried, 
"  God,  if  thou  be  anywhere,  I  thank  thee." 

Reader,  who  knowest  better,  do  not  mock  him.  Gently 
excuse  him.  His  brain  was  excited  ;  there  was  a  commo- 
tion in  the  particles  of  the  human  cauliflower ;  a  rush  of 
chemical  changes  and  interchanges  was  going  on ;  the  tide 
was  Setting  for  the  vasty  deep  of  marvel,  which  was  nowhere 
but  within  itself  And  then  he  was  in  love  with  his  wife, 
therefore  open  to  deceptions  without  end,  for  is  not  all 
love  a  longing  after  what  never  was  and  never  can  be  ? 


MY  LA DY'S  CIIA MBER.  509 

He  was  beaten.  But  scorn  him  not  for  yielding. 
Think  how  he  was  beaten.  Could  he  help  it  that  the 
life  in  him  proved  too  much  for  the  death  with  which 
he  had  sided  ?  Was  it  poltroonery  to  desert  the  cause 
of  ruin  for  that  of  growth  ?  of  essential  slavery  for  ordered 
freedom  ?  of  disintegration  for  vital  and  enlarging  unity  ? 
He  had  "  said  to  corruption,  Thou  art  my  father  j  to  the 
worm,  Thou  art  my  mother,  and  my  sister;"  but  a 
mightier  than  he,  the  Life  that  lighteth  every  man  that 
cometh  into  the  world,  had  said,  "  O  thou  enemy,  destruc- 
tion shall  have  a  ix-rpetual  end;"  and  he  could  not 
stand  against  the  life  by  which  he  stood.  When  it  comes 
to  this,  what  can  a  man  do  ?  Remember  he  was  a  created 
being— or,  if  you  will  not  allow  that,  then  something 
greatly  less.  If  not  "  loved  into  being"  by  a  perfect  Will, 
in  his  own  image  of  life  and  law,  he  had  but  a  mother 
whom  he  never  could  see,  because  she  could  never  behold 
either  herself  or  him  :  he  was  the  offspring  of  the  dead, 
and  must  be  pardoned  if  he  gave  a  foolish  cry  after  a 
parent  worth  having. 

Wait,  thou  who  countest  such  a  cry  a  weak  submis- 
sion, until,  having  refused  to  take  thine  hour  with  thee, 
thine  hour  overtakes  thee :  then  see  if  thou  wilt  stand 
out.  Another's  battle  is  easy.  God  only  knows  with 
what  earthquakes  and  thunders,  that  hour,  on  its  way  to 
find  thee,  may  level  the  mountains  and  valleys  between. 
If  thou  wouldst  be  perfect  in  the  greatness  of  thy  way, 
thou  must  learn  to  live  in  the  fire  of  thy  own  divine 
nature  turned  against  thy  conscious  self:  learn  to  smile 
content  in  that,  "and  thou  wilt  out-satan  Satan  in  the 
putridity  of  essential  meanness,  yea,  self-satisfied  in  very 
virtue  of  thy  shame,  thou  wilt  count  it  the  throned 
apotheosis  of  inbred  honour.  But  seeming  is  not  being 
—least  of  all  self-seeming.  Dishonour  will  yet  be  dis- 
honour, if  all  the  fools  in  creation  should  be  in  love  with 
it,  and  call  it  glory. 

[n  an  hour,  Juliet  woke  again,  vaguely  remembering  a 
heavenly  dream,  whose  odorous   air  yet  lingered,   and 


5IO  PAUL  FABER. 

made  her  happy,  she  knew  not  why.  Then  what  a  task 
would  Iiave  been  Faber's  !  For  he  must  not  go  near  her. 
The  balance  of  her  life  trembled  on  a  knife-edge,  and 
a  touch  might  incline  it  towards  death.  A  sob  might 
determine  the  doubt. 

But  as  soon  as  he  saw  sign  that  her  sleep  was  begin- 
ning to  break,  he  all  but  extinguished  the  light,  then 
having  felt  her  pulse,  listened  to  her  breathing,  and  satis- 
fied himself  generally  of  her  condition,  crept  from  the 
room,  and  calling  the  nurse,  told  her  to  take  his  place. 
He  would  be  either  in  the  next  room,  he  said,  or  within 
call  in  the  park. 

He  threw  himself  on  the  bed,  but  could  not  rest;  rose 
and  had  a  bath ;  listened  at  Juliet's  door,  and  hearing  no 
sound,  went  to  the  stable.  Niger  greeted  him  with  a 
neigh  of  pleasure.  He  made  haste  to  saddle  him,  his 
hands  trembling  so  that  he  could  hardly  get  the  strajDS 
into  the  girth  buckles. 

"That's  Niger!''  said  Juliet,  hearing  his  whinny.  "Is 
he  come  ?" 

"  Who,  ma'am  ?"  asked  the  nurse,  a  stranger  to  Glaston, 
of  course. 

"•The  doctor — is  he  come  ?" 

"He's  but  just  gone,  ma'am.  He's  been  sitting  by 
you  all  night — would  let  no  one  else  come  near  you. 
Rather  peculiar,  in  my  opinion  !" 

A  soft  flush,  all  the  blood  she  could  show,  tinged  her 
cheek.  It  was  Hope's  own  colour — the  reflection  of  a  red 
rose  from  a  white. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 


NOWHERE     AND     EVERYWHERE. 

>  ABER  sprung  upon  Niger's  back,  and  galloped 
wildly  through  the  park.  His  soul  was  like 
a  southern  sea  under  a  summer  tornado. 
The  slow  dawn  was  gathering  under  a 
smoky  cloud  with  an  edge  of  cold  yellow ; 
a  thin  wind  was  abroad ;  rain  had  fallen  in 
the  night,  and  the  grass  was  wet  and  cool  to  Niger's 
hoofs ;  the  earth  sent  up  a  savour,  which  like  a  soft  warp 
was  crossed  by  a  woof  of  sweet  odours  from  leaf-buds 
and  wild  flowers,  and  spangled  here  and  there  with  a 
silver  thread  of  bird  song — for  but  few  of  the  beast- 
angels  were  awake  yet.  Through  the  fine  consorting 
mass  of  silence  and  odour,  went  the  soft  thunder  of 
Niger's  gallop  over  the  turf.  His  master's  joy  had 
overflowed  into  him  :  the  creatures  are  not  all  stupid 
that  cannot  speak ;  some  of  them  are  ivith  vs  more  than 
we  think.  According  to  the  grand  old  tale,  God  made 
his  covenant  with  all  the  beasts  that  came  out  of  the  ark 
as  well  as  with  Noah  ;  for  them  also  he  set  liis  bow  of 
hope  in  the  cloud  of  fear ;  they  are  God's  creatures,  God 
bless  them  !  and  if  not  exactly  human,  are,  I  think,  some- 
thing more  than  Immanish.  Niger  gave  his  soul  with 
his  legs  to  his  master's  mood  that  morning.     He  was 


512  PAUL  FABER. 

used  to  hard  gallops  with  him  across  country,  but  this 
was  different ;  this  was  plainly  a  frolic,  the  first  he  had 
had  since  he  came  into  his  service ;  and  a  frolic  it 
should  be  ! 

A  deeper,  loftier,  lovelier  morning  was  dawning  in 
Faber's  world  unseen.  One  dread  burden  was  lifted 
from  his  being :  his  fierce  pride,  his  unmanly  cruelty, 
his  spotless  selfishness,  had  not  hunted  a  woman  soul 
(juite  into  the  mouldy  jaws  of  the  grave ;  she  was  given 
back  to  him,  to  tend,  and  heal,  and  love  as  he  had 
never  yet  dreamed  of  loving  !  Endless  was  the  dawn 
that  was  breaking  in  him ;  unutterably  sweet  the  joy. 
Life  was  now  to  be  lived — not  endured.  How  he  would 
nurse  the  lily  he  had  bruised  and  broken  !  From  her 
own  remorse  he  would  shield  her.  He  would  be  to  her 
a  summer  land — a  refuge  from  the  wind,  a  covert  from 
the  tempest.  He  would  be  to  her  like  that  Saviour  for 
whom,  in  her  wandering  fancy,  she  had  taken  him  :  never 
more  in  vaguest  thought  would  he  turn  from  her.  If, 
in  any  evil  mood,  a  thought  unkind  should  dare  glance 
back  at  her  past,  he  would  clasp  her  the  closer  to  his 
heart,  the  more  to  be  shielded  that  the  shield  itself  was 
so  poor.  Once  he  laughed  aloud  as  he  rode,  to  find 
himself  actually  wondering  whether  the  story  of  the 
resurrection  coidd  be  true ;  for  what  had  the  restoration 
of  his  Juliet  in  common  with  the  outworn  superstition  ? 
In  any  overwhelming  joy,  he  concluded,  the  heart  leans 
to  lovely  marvel. 

But  there  is  as  much  of  the  reasonable  as  of  to  us  the 
marvellous  in  that  which  alone  has  ever  made  credible 
proffer  towards  the  filling  of  the  gulf  whence  issue  all 
the  groans  of  humanity.  Let  Him  be  tested  by  the  only 
test  that  can,  on  the  supposition  of  his  asserted  nature, 
be  applied  to  him — that  of  obedience  to  the  words  he 
lias  spoken — words  that  commend  themselves  to  every 
honest  nature.  Proof  of  other  sort,  if  it  could  be  granted, 
would,  leaving  our  natures  where  they  were,  only  sink  us 
in  condemnation. 


NOWHERE  AND  EVERYWHERE.  513 

Why  should  I  pursue  the  story  farther?  and  if  not 
here,  where  better  should  I  stop  ?  The  true  story  has 
no  end — no  end.  •  But  endlessly  dreary  would  the  story 
be,  were  there  no  Life  living  by  its  own  will,  no  perfect 
Will,  one  with  an  almighty  heart,  no  Love  in  whom 
we  live  and  move  and  have  our  being.  Offer  me  an 
eternity  in  all  things  else  after  my  own  imagination,  but 
without  a  perfect  Father,  and  I  say.  No ;  let  me  die, 
even  as  the  unbelieving  would  have  it.  Not  believing  in 
the  Father  of  Jesus,  they  are  right  in  not  desiring  to 
live.  Heartily  do  I  justify  them  therein.  For  all  this 
talk  and  disputation  about  immortality,  wherein  is  re- 
garded only  the  continuance  of  consciousness  beyond 
what  we  call  death,  it  is  to  me,  with  whatever  splendour 
of  intellectual  coruscation  it  be  accompanied,  but  little 
better  than  a  foolish  babble,  the  crackling  of  thorns  under 
a  pot.  Apart  from  himself,  God  forbid  there  should  be 
any  immortality.  If  it  could  be  proved  apart  from  him, 
then  apart  from  him  it  could  be,  and  would  be  infinite 
damnation.  It  is  an  impossibility,  and  were  but  an  un- 
mitigated evil.  And  if  it  be  impossible  without  him,  it 
cannot  be  believed  without  him  :  if  it  could  be  proved 
without  him,  the  belief  so  gamed  would  be  an  evil.  Only 
with  the  knowledge  of  the  Father  of  Christ,  did  the  end- 
lessness of  being  become  a  doctrine  of  bliss  to  men.  If 
he  be  the  first  life,  the  author  of  his  own,  to  speak  after 
the  language  of  men,  and  the  origin  and  source  of  all 
other  life,  it  can  be  only  by  knowing  him  that  we 
can  know  whether  we  shall  live  or  die.  Nay  more, 
far  more ! — the  knowledge  of  him  by  such  innermost 
contact  as  is  possible  only  between  creator  and  created, 
and  possible  only  when  the  created  has  aspired  to  be 
one  with  the  will  of  the  creator,  such  knowledge  and 
such  alone  is  life  to  the  created  ;  it  is  the  very  life,  that 
alone  for  the  sake  of  which  God  created  us.  If  we  are 
one  with  God  in  heart,  in  righteousness,  in  desire,  no  death 
can  touch  us,  for  we  are  life,  and  the  garment  of  immor- 
tality, the  endless  length  of  days  which  is  but  the  mere 

LL 


ST4  PAUL  FABER. 

shadow  of  the  eternal,  follows  as  a  simple  necessity  :  he 
is  not  the  God  of  the  dead,  or  of  the  dying,  but  of  the 
essentially  alive.  Without  this  inmost  knowledge  of  him, 
this  oneness  with  him,  we  have  no  hfe  in  us,  for  //  is  life, 
and  that  for  the  sake  of  which  all  this  outward  show  of 
things,  and  our  troubled  condition  in  the  midst  of  them, 
exists.  All  that  is  mighty,  grand,  harmonious,  therefore 
in  its  own  nature  true,  is.  If  not,  then  dearly  I  thank 
the  grim  Death,  that  I  shall  die  and  not  live.  Thus  unde- 
ceived, my  only  terror  would  be  that  the  unbehevers 
might  be  but  half  right,  and  there  might  be  a  life, 
so-called,  beyond  the  grave  without  a  God. 

My  brother  man,  is  the  idea  of  a  God  too  good 
or  too  foolish  for  thy  belief  ?  or  is  it  that  thou  art 
not  great  enough  or  humble  enough  to  hold  it?  In 
either  case,  I  will  believe  it  for  thee  and  for  me.  Only 
be  not  stiff-necked  when  the  truth  begins  to  draw  thee  : 
thou  wilt  find  it  hard  if  she  has  to  go  behind  and  drive 
thee — hard  to  kick  against  the  divine  goads,  which,  be 
thou  ever  so  mulish,  will  be  too  much  for  thee  at  last. 
Yea,  the  time  will  come  when  thou  wilt  goad  thyself 
towards  the  divine.  But  hear  me  this  once  more  :  the 
God,  the  Jesus,  in  whom  I  believe,  are  not  the  God,  the 
Jesus,  in  whom  you  fancy  I  believe :  you  know  them 
not ;  your  idea  of  them  is  not  mine.  If  you  knew  them 
you  would  believe  in  them,  for  to  know  them  is  to  believe 
in  them.  Say  not,  "  I^et  him  teach  me,  then,"  except 
•you  mean  it  in  submissive  desire  ;  for  he  has  been  teach- 
ing you  all  this  time  :  if  you  have  been  doing  his  teaching, 
you  are  on  the  way  to  learn  more  j  if  you  hear  and  do 
not  heed,  where  is  the  wonder  that  the  things  I  tell  you 
sound  in  your  ears  as  the  muttering  of  a  dotard  ?  They 
convey  to  you  nothing,  it  may  be ;  but  that  which  makes 
of  them  words — words — words,  lies  in  you,  not  in  me. 
Yours  is  the  killing  power.  They  would  bring  you  life, 
but  the  death  in  him  that  knoweth  and  doeth  not  is 
strong ;  in  your  air  they  drop  and  die,  winged  things 
no  more. 


NOWHERE  AND  EVERYWHERE.  515 

For  days  Faber  took  measures  not  to  be  seen  by  Juliet. 
But  he  was  constantly  about  the  place,  and  when  she  woke 
from  a  sleep,  they  had  often  to  tell  her  that  he  had  been 
by  her  side  all  the  time  she  slept.  At  night  he  was 
either  in  her  room  or  in  the  next  chamber.  Dorothy  used 
to  say  to  her  that  if  she  wanted  her  husband,  she  had 
only  to  go  to  sleep.  She  was  greatly  tempted  to  pre- 
tend, but  would  not. 

At  length  Faber  requested  Dorothy  to  tell  Juliet  that 
the  doctor  said  she  might  send  for  her  husband  when  she 
pleased.  Much  as  he  longed  to  hear  her  voice,  he 
would  not  come  without  her  permission. 

He  was  by  her  side  the  next  moment.  But  for  minutes 
not  a  word  was  spoken  ;  a  speechless  embrace  was  all. 

It  does  not  concern  me  to  relate  how  by  degrees 
they  came  to  a  close  understanding.  Where  love  is, 
everything  is  easy,  or,  if  not  easy,  yet  to  be  accom- 
plished. Of  course  Faber  made  his  return  confession  in 
full.  I  will  not  say  that  Juliet  had  not  her  respond- 
ent pangs  of  retrospective  jealousy.  Love,  although  an 
angel,  has  much  to  learn  yet,  and  the  demon  Jealousy 
may  be  one  of  the  schoolmasters  of  her  coming  per- 
fection :  God  only  knows.  There  must  be  a  divine 
way  of  casting  out  the  demon  ;  else  how  would  it  be 
hereafter  ? 

Unconfessed  to  each  other,  their  falls  would  for  ever 
have  been  between  to  part  them ;  confessed,  they  drew 
them  together  in  sorrow  and  humility  and  mutual 
consoling. 

The  litde  Amanda  could  not  tell  whether  Juliet's  house 
or  Dorothy's  was  her  home  :  when  at  the  one,  she  always 
talked  of  the  other  as  home.  She  called  her  iaXhitx  papa, 
and  Juliet  w(7w;//<7  ,•  Dorothy  had  been  ^/c;///<?  from  the 
first.  She  always  wrote  her  name,  Amanda  Duck  Faber. 
From  all  this  the  gossips  of  Glaston  explained  everything 
satisfactorily :  Juliet  had  left  her  husband  on  discover- 
ing that  he  had  a  child  of  whose  existence  he  had 
never  told  her  :  but  learning  that  the  mother  was  dead, 


5i6  PAUL  FABER. 

yielded  at  length,  and  was  reconciled.  That  was  the 
nearest  they  ever  came  to  the  facts,  and  it  was  not 
needful  they  should  ever  know  more.  The  talkers  of 
the  world  are  not  on  the  jury  of  the  court  of  the  uni- 
verse. There  are  many,  doubtless,  who  need  the  shame 
of  a  public  exposure  to  make  them  recognize  their  own 
doing  for  what  it  is  ;  but  of  such  Juliet  had  not  been. 
Her  husband  knew  her  fault — that  was  enough  :  he  knew 
also  his  own  immeasurably  worse  than  hers,  but  when  they 
folded  each  other  to  the  heart,  they  left  their  faults  out- 
side— as  God  does,  when  he  oasts  our  sins  behind  his 
back,  in  utter  uncreation. 

I  will  say  nothing  definite  as  to  the  condition  of  mind 
at  which  Faber  had  arrived  when  last  Wingfold  and  he  had 
a  talk  together.  He  was  gi-ovving,  and  that  is  all  we  can 
require  of  any  man.  He  would  not  say  he  was  a  believer 
in  the  supernal,  but  he  believed  more  than  he  said,  and  he 
never  talked  against  belief.  Also  he  went  as  often  as  he 
could  to  church,  which,  little  as  it  means  in  general,  did 
not  mean  little  when  the  man  was  Paul  Faber,  and  where 
the  minister  was  Thomas  Wingfold. 

It  is  time  for  the  end.  Here  it  is — in  a  little  poem, 
which,  on  her  next  birthday,  the  curate  gave  Dorothy  : 

O  wind  of  God,  that  blowest  in  the  mind, 

Blow,  blow  and  wake  the  gentle  spring  in  me  ; 

Blow,  swifter  blow,  a  strong  warm  summer  wind, 
Till  all  the  flowers  with  eyes  come  out  to  see  ; 
Blow  till  the  fruit  hangs  red  on  eveiy  tree, 

And  our  high- soaring  song-larks  meet  thy  dove — 
High  the  imperfect  soars,  descends  the  perfect  Love. 

Blow  not  the  less  though  winter  cometh  then  ; 

Blow,  wind  of  God,  blow  hither  changes  keen  ; 
Let  the  spring  creep  into  the  ground  again, 

The  flowers  close  all  their  eyes,  not  to  be  seen ; 

All  lives  in  thee  that  ever  once  hath  been  : 
Blow,  fill  my  upper  air  with  icy  storms  ; 
Breathe  cold,  O  wind  of  God,  and  kill  my  canker-worms. 


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